


Shadow In The Mirror

by EclipseWing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU during Fox and Wolf, But picks up from Letharia Vulpina, Except Stiles uses it as a food source, Gen, I just really wanted a bit of Nogitsune left in him okay?, Identity Issues, Lack of identity, Malia and Stiles are cute together, Nogitsune Stiles, Plural pronouns, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Riddles, Werewolf Pain-Relief Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:39:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2066742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EclipseWing/pseuds/EclipseWing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When the sun catches him at the right angle, his shadow twists until it looks almost like there is a nine-tailed fox, trotting at his heels."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mirror

They hear it.

It's in ~~his~~ their head.

Their fingers tap on the sword hilt, palm grips and twists just right.

 ~~He~~ They feels the rush of pain shoot up ~~his~~ their arm like an electric shock, making ~~him~~ them shudder with joy and relief. The hunger abates somewhere and in ~~his~~ their mind the fox curls up, sated and smug. "You've gotta learn, Scott." ~~he~~ they says, "You've gotta learn not to trust a fox. We're tricksters. We'll fool ya'."

They settle their grip on their friend's shoulders and lean closer, eyes condescending and just the wrong side of madness.

"We'll fool everyone."

"Not everyone."

They turn, but not quickly enough. The needle sinks in and they choke, gasping as something rips them apart.

Stiles struggles like a drowning man for breath, while not-Stiles screams and writhes in pain. They are torn apart in poison and pain and the cold metal of a needle in his vein.

They fall to the ground separately.

 

Stiles doesn't know when it became a question.

Who is he?

He's not sure anymore. He feels like he's been torn in two.

 

"We're going to destroy all of them, Stiles. All of them."

"You are. Not we."

"Not yet."

 

And Eichen House is a fucking mess, and they walk out, a smile on the fox's face. "She's kind of pretty, that coyote of yours," they muse over the situation with Malia. "What do you think your little banshee would think of that?"

They smile, and there is no protest, no silent little voice. For now they are one, together, and in some twisted corner, Stiles pushes a white piece onto the board, and they make a decision.

It their game, and they're going to win.

They poke around several places but end up at the school, looking for the tail of the kitsune who had called them here. The kitsune who called them, summoned them is bother older and younger than them, in the same way they know the place like the back of their hand, but they've never set foot there before.

Fingers trail along the desks and the husband stiffens as they draw nearer.

"You'll talk," they promise, "They always talk."

He doesn't really have that much to say unfortunately, and they leave. Another piece moves on the board and they debate over their options.

In their head, Stiles screams and tries to shove his way out of a locker. Not-Stiles shifts forms between Stiles and Rhys and some shadow that may or may not be a fox. He's infinite and limited he's whatever he wants to be.

And at the moment he wants Stiles.

But Stiles doesn't. Stiles wants out. Stiles wants to stop this game right now and Stiles wants to protect his friends.

"Let's play a different game," he suggests, and the fox laughs.

"But this is so entertaining, Stiles."

"Answer this. Why did you choose me? Why not Scott, or Allison? Why me?"

"Why not?"

"That's not an answer."

"If you drop me I'm sure to crack, but give me a smile and I'll always smile back."

"Not more riddles. A straight answer."

"That is your answer, Stiles. If you can answer the riddle."

"Why?"

"Why does anybody do anything."

There is silence in their head for some time, and they play around idly with the chessboard in Stiles' room for a bit before heading to the loft.

"Well?" the fox asks, eventually.

"A mirror." is the answer, "But that's not an answer."

"Out of all of them," the heavy door opens and they slip in, closing it behind them, "You're the one who is most like me. My opposite. My partner. My other half. You're my reflection. I'm your shadow, and you are mine. We were as good as made for each other."

"You've had previous hosts."

"But none… quite like you."

"I don't want to play this game anymore."

"Too bad. We're already playing it."

"Because there's a flaw in your logic."

"I'm not logical, Stiles. I'm a trickster."

"But you said I was a mirror right? That the pair of us, we're mirror images."

The fox hums, and they examine the faded alpha sign on the window. Their head is filled with images of wolves and alphas both from Stiles and the fox.

"Your point?"

"You saw me where I never was and where I could not be. And yet within that very place, my face you often see."

"I thought you disapproved of riddles, Stiles."

"Just answer it."

"It's a reflection."

"Exactly. You talk about us as if we're mirror opposites. But we're not. You didn't choose me because we're _opposites_. You chose us because we're the _same_."

And in reality they stop, freezing for a moment. And under layers of thoughts and feelings of the two of them, so entwined they are no longer separate, one of them smiles, with just a hunt of triumph.

"We've always been the same."

And in reality they stiffen, eyes rolling up in their head as they drop to the ground, while in their head all they can hear is the buzzing of flies.

 

_"You've heard me before, yet you'll hear me again, then I die 'til you call me again."_

 

The Sheriff arrives and he doesn't find what he's expecting. A trickster, his son, neither stand before him.

Instead there is a huddled lump by the window, and he recognises the hoodie. "Stiles," he breathes, jogging across to him. From behind the door Chris, Allison and Derek enter, because something's wrong. They don't wait, as he sprints to his fallen son.

Stiles' skin is ice cold, and there are dark bags under his eyes. Beneath closed lids his eyes roll, but his limbs are still.

The pulse flutters like a butterfly trapped beneath the skin.

"What's wrong?" Allison hovers as her dad leans down.

Chris frowns, "He's unconscious. But he's not injured and I see no sign of any sort of issue." At his words the Sheriff tentatively reaches out, and lays the back of his hand on Stiles' brow.

Stiles' eyes fly open and Chris lurches back in surprise. The Sheriff can see why, snatching his hand back because the iris of Stiles' eyes are blazing mercury grey, almost silver as they glow unnaturally.

And then his son scrambles upright, gasping for breath as if waking from a rather violent dream. He doubles over, only for the Sheriff to automatically catch him around the chest, and Stiles sags into him, and Stiles' father is suddenly full of an armful of his son as Stiles sucks in heaving gasps of air.

"Stiles?" Allison ducks down in front, Taser at the ready and the other teenager blinks: eyes still that eerie silver. He stares at her, not speaking.

"Stiles?" the Sheriff asks, putting one hand on his son's shoulder.

But Stiles flinches, knocking it off and shoving himself backwards, away from his father. He scrambles backwards, unable to get that far because Derek is standing right behind him.

He stops anyway, stops pushing away because he's staring at his hand, trembling slightly as he rotates his wrist. Each finger twitches, and the Sheriff wonders if he's counting them, when he looks back up at them with confusion and relief and resignation on his face.

"Stiles?" the Sheriff asks, hardly daring to hope.

Because Stiles' expression is shifting from confusion to acceptance and the side of his lip quirks. "Not quite," he says, voice rough like he's been screaming.

And at the words Allison's taser comes up and Stiles tilts his head in an un-Stiles-like manner. He blinks, slowly, calm suddenly, and the blazing silver is gone from his eyes when he next opens them. "The taser won't do anything, Allison," he says, calmly, shoulders slumping slightly. He's not moving, not running, not attacking.

Chris eyes him, warily. "Stiles? Are you going to come with us and co-operate or do we need to use force?"

And the Sheriff pulls out the handcuffs, and dangles them in front of Stiles' face. His eyes slide up, amused, almost. "Don't." he says, "I'll come quietly."

"I don't believe you," Derek says, and Stiles turns his head to see, to meet the gaze of the ex-alpha, but the syringe is already buried into Stiles' neck.

He chokes, and his hand flies to the syringe. His eyes roll, meeting the Sheriff's in some silent plea, but the Sheriff stands up, because maybe this time the fox might stay down for longer, and he can talk to his son properly without a fox there.

Stiles gasps for air, hands scrambling to keep him up but growing steadily weaker. His eyelids grow heavy as he slowly slips down until his head falls down onto the loft floor.

And they wait, standing around the limb body, waiting for Stiles to emerge.

"According to Deaton," Allison says, "He woke up pretty quickly after being poisoned. I mean… not even an hour and then he was up, being Stiles again."

So they wait.

And wait.

Stiles doesn't wake up.

 

"Is there anything of my son left?"

"You say he didn't fight?"

"No. He just sat there and he looked like Stiles."

"But wrong. Calmer. Still."

"Shouldn't Stiles have woken up by now?"

"The dose is weaker. It might not be enough to fully supress the fox. Stiles may be unconscious."

"Or dead."

"If we don’t find anything soon, he'll wake up again. But whether he'll be Stiles or the nogitsune, I can't tell you."

 

They open their eyes and they feel better than they have for a long time.

They're not really Stiles anymore. Not just Stiles. Stiles drowned in a bath of ice cold water. Something was cut out of him, leaving jagged edges and nightmares and a fractured psyche, into which something crawled, slipping through the cracks.

They're more than just a nogitsune.

They're more than Stiles.

They remember crawling from the roots of the Nemeton. They remember fleeing from a kanima's claws. They remember bandages trailing from the form of the host they'd picked because the irony was too beautiful to resist. They remember the screams of the encampment soldiers. They remember the pained look on Scott's face as the blade twists.

They remember they were separate once. Half of a whole, and it's like a dream. They can't imagine being apart.

Their eyes open. They're lying on their back on the examination table, and the emissary leaning over them leans back in alarm. "Stiles?" Deaton asks.

There is a thump. Scott lurches upright to the side as they roll over, pushing themselves up from the table. They grin weakly at the friend, the alpha, and they remember how good it felt to drive the sword into the wolf before them.

They won't do that again. Scott's important to them. He's useful and most importantly they feel attachments to him.

Attachments are dangerous. Attachments mean pain later, but someone once told them that a little hell was worth it.

"Stiles?" their alpha asks, and the words die on his tongue. He stares at them and then at the vet.

"We're fine," they say, even though their limbs feel shaky and weak. Even though Scott flinches back at their words and the vet blinks with a short, sharp, gasp. "Scott?" they asks, confused, and then they realise what's wrong.

They're not just Stiles anymore. They're something more, and it's still too new for them to process.

They still force themselves to say it. "I'm fine." they test it out. He tests it out. Him. Stiles. "Me. Just me. I'm fine."

But Scott is looking at them with worry. Looking at him. The alpha's eyes flare red and he looks at Stiles. Really looks with alpha vision. "No, you're not." he whispers. "Stiles…" he shakes his head, "You're not Stiles."

"We are." Stiles breathes, "We are. Scott, please. We're fine. We're here and we're not going anywhere. Scott…"

The vet steps forwards, "Don't listen to it, Scott. If this is just another trick…"

"But it isn't…" And they're suddenly, angry. Because Scott is their friend, their alpha. "He's me." Stiles attempts to explain, "I'm him. There's no split. Not anymore. We…" he thinks his pronouns through for a bit, "He got too close. Too trapped. Too integrated into my psyche. By the time he worked it out and tried to go back there was nothing to go back to. There's no barrier…" he jerks one of his hands in an angry gesture, "Between us. We're Stiles and fox and we're a thousand years old, we're seventeen, we crawled out from beneath an ancient oak tree but we also spend half our time making sure Scott isn't failing classes. We…" he pauses, "I… It's us. Me. It's me, Scott." he begs his friend.

And Scott flinches away, "You don't see it." he whispers, "You're the only one who still thinks that, Stiles. Whoever you are now. That thing… it possessed you. It changed you…" and his gaze is far reached, too old for his young eyes, "You're not Stiles anymore."

And there is a lump in their - _his_ \- throat. It hurts, like someone stabbed them and they feels out of breath. Their heart is pounding in his ears and they shake their head. Some part of their brain informs them that this is a panic attack, because Scott is right.

They're not Stiles.

Not just Stiles.

And they watch through hazy eyes as Scott's face, full of disappointment and horror and sadness falls away into worry and confusion. "Stiles?" he asks them. The alpha steps forwards, crowding them. The air feels like it's been sucked out of the room and the small space makes them feel like they're being buried. They're being drowned again, and they have to get out. "Stiles?" Scott asks again, and it's too much.

They slip off the table and bolt for the door, shoving past their friend. They're stronger now. There is a still a gnawing hunger in their stomach but it's not urgent quite yet.

They flee, running away and a part of him knows it's cowardly, and another part doesn't care.

They think those parts might have once been separate, but now it's not.

It's just them.

Just him.

They really have to stop referring to themselves as plural but later, because at the moment there is worry and Scott and the vet is yelling and they're drawing to a halt in front of a barrier of mountain ash.

Their face crumples, and their knees give way. "No," they whisper in despair, "No no nononono," they suck in air.

He sucks in air. There are footsteps behind ~~them~~ him. "Let me out," they whisper to Scott. He whispers.

There is just one of them, sprawled there, trapped and there might have once been two of them, and there might still be, wrapped together. They're never going to be alone, but at this instant they've never felt so lonely.

"What are you going to do?" Scott asks, and it's a valid question.

They don't know the answer. He, Stiles, doesn't know.

Except he kind of does, "I just want to go home. Scott… please…"

And Scott caves. It was kind of inevitable. "Deaton," he asks, and the vet emissary druid steps forwards, one hand out uncertainly.

"Scott, are you sure?" he asks.

The alpha hesitates, and Stiles lurches to his feet. "Let me out," he demands, "Let me OUT, dammit!" he almost snarls it, and his fingers crackle with static. The lights flicker, on and off. Deaton takes a step back, and he's staring at Stiles.

At Stiles' eyes.

Scott saw it too, evidently, "Stiles… your eyes…"

"Let me out," he demands again, voice calmer. Deaton doesn't question it this time, lifting the barrier and Stiles is gone, pushing past and out of the door, Scott still floundering behind him. He isn't quick enough though, because he still hears Scott's words.

"Your eyes were silver."

 

_"What's the one question you can never answer 'yes' to?"_

_"Are you dead?"_

 

He doesn't go home.

Because while it's home, red string and green string and dad and bed and pillow it's also not. His home is somewhere else, between here and there and in the roots of an oak in which he spent so, so long curled up waiting.

The oak calls to him, and so he goes there, and he stays there.

Hours pass. Days, even. Weeks.

He has a phone he pickpocketed from Scott. He disables the GPS and sends a text to assure people he's okay, he's still alive, because he's meant to do stuff like that, right? He's Stiles, and his friends and family will worry about him.

But he's also not Stiles, and they know that, he knows that, but he's both and it's harder than you think, merging your psyche. He's still not exactly sure if they meant to do it, but they did and he is the results.

He plays with the phone, in case they go to Danny to try and discover his location. He sends regular update texts. One to Lydia asking her to collect school work. One to his dad apologising. One to Scott saying he's fine, he just needs time, he's better, he's not a threat, please don't be afraid of us me whoever we are now.

They send flurries back but he doesn't reply.

For the most part he stays near the Nemeton. The hunger strikes after about twelve days, and he sneaks into the hospital. He's pretty sure Melissa spotted him, but by the time she made it down the corridor he was gone. Had she talked to anyone, she would have heard nothing more than comments about how nice the volunteer was, and how having visitors makes them feel so much better because nothing hurt anymore.

Stiles hurts. Stiles aches, but it's sweet and it tingles down his spine and he feels full and happy.

He feels almost human again, even though he knows he's not, he doesn't even want to be human anymore, because he's more, so much more, he's whole.

A reflection always has two parts, but in the end they are usually the same.

 

Noshiko finds him on the nineteenth day.

"I thought you'd be quicker," he says. Actually he'd expected Lydia to find him long before, but either she's not using her powers or she's respecting his privacy.

"In retrospect I should have been," she says, and she draws her sword.

Stiles can't resist sucking in breath, almost as if he's surprised. He doesn't move, just tilts his head from where he is sitting cross-legged on the Nemeton, exposing his throat. "Okay then," he says.

She doesn't move, "Do you remember?" she asks.

He nods.

She is silent, looking down at something he's scrawled on the Nemeton until the bark is white with the scratches. "Who are you?" she asks.

It's kind of appropriate considering the 'self' kanji he's scrawled on the tree trunk. Because he doesn't know.

He says as much and then taps the kanji, "Why this one?" he asks, "Why 'self'?"

She raises her chin defiantly, "To signify that Rhys died as himself."

And he remembers bandages and pain and a broken love. "What happened to the woman who called out for strife and chaos to descend?"

"I don't want that anymore," she says, "Do you?"

And he tilts his head, considering it. It's be kind of fun, he figures. He shrugs instead, "I'm still working through things."

Amazingly she seems to accept that. "I won't kill an innocent boy. I don't know what you did to join yourself in this way, but obviously Stiles is still in there. I'll give you the time you need. For now."

And the boy grins, lips twisting into a smirk. "You think the fox did this? Because this? This was all Stiles. This was his move. His divine move. And I'd say he's won the game, wouldn't you?"

 

_"Until I am measured I am not know. Yet how you miss me when I have flown."_

 

Lydia helps Malia through her maths work, while Allison sits nearby talking to Kira who sits opposite, next to Scott who is sitting by Isaac.

She knows the moment he walks in. She can't explain it either, just the shiver that runs through her. Her head snaps up and the wolves pause, scenting the air. Scott half stands, freezing and gazing over her head.

Slowly Lydia turns, spotting the familiar figure as he ducks towards them.

She hasn't seen Stiles in a month. None of them have.

He's calmer. Still and walks with strength and confidence. He ducks his head when he sees them looking at him, but continues heading towards them.

The only open seat is next to Lydia or Isaac. Lydia shifts uncomfortably, but thankfully someone drops into the seat and so Stiles is forced to circle around.

According to Kira's mom, Stiles and the nogitsune had fused together or something to that extent. Apparently it was also Stiles' move and not the nogitsune's.

Stiles pauses next to Isaac, unsure if he should sit. "Hi guys," he says, lamely, and then sits anyway. "What's up?"

"What's up?" Lydia hisses, finding herself angry, "You haven't been around for a whole month and now 'what's up?" she's pissed. She would expect Stiles to look sheepish, nervous and flustered as he tries to explain and it's a testament to how he's changed that he just tilts his head to the side as if he can't understand what he did wrong.

"It's okay," the person sitting next to her lays a reassuring hand on her arm. She yanks it back.

She doesn't want Jackson of all people to comfort her.

Stiles leans forwards, elbow resting on the table and cheek resting on his palm. "How was London?" he asks Jackson.

Lydia's ex-boyfriend glares at Stiles, "How was insanity?" he retorts.

Stiles pulls a face, "Oh, that's not nice. But since you ask, Lydia, how was insanity?"

She slams her hand down on the table, "Stop it. Stiles, where the hell have you been?"

"Why aren't you asking that to the guy sitting next to you?"

She resists the urge to glare at Jackson. He's explained his story. He's back from London and he's been back for two weeks. He needs an alpha, he needs a pack, and apparently they don't play lacrosse in London. Lydia notes how she doesn't even make his list. But she doesn't care.

Jackson had come back to a missing Stiles, his previous alpha was suddenly a beta and Scott was the alpha now. He was still getting used to the power dynamics that they'd barely had a chance to fill him in.

Meanwhile Stiles has been missing with no explanation for a month. "Talk." she snaps.

And Stiles' gaze is almost lazy as his eyes flick to hers, "About?" he asks.

"Where the hell were you?" she repeats.

"I needed some time," he answers, almost defensively, "People do that, spend some time alone. To think. Alone, with time and thoughts." The roundabout answer is totally Stiles and it throws her for a few seconds. During which time Stiles drops his hand to the table and leans back, "I'm still me," he whispers, "Stop… stop looking at me like that. I'm still Stiles."

"You're not though," Isaac says, sitting next to Stiles. "Your scent has even changed. You smell like fox and to be honest you act like it too."

"How would you know, considering you spent half your time in the hospital?" Stiles snaps, venom in his voice.

"He's right," Lydia whispers, "Before I could sense you. I was your tether, but now…"

Jackson looks confused. Stiles looks like someone has taken away something precious, but his gaze is hard, flat. "Well may if you were a better tether we wouldn't be in this mess."

"Don't blame me!" Lydia hisses, suddenly aware they are still in the middle of the cafeteria. "I'm not the one who let the fox in! Don't try and make me feel guilty about not keeping you grounded when you're the one who let go first!"

"You think we wanted this?" Stiles asks, disbelieving. His fingers drum a pattern as they tap on the table, a steady rhythm. "To be torn apart and stuck back together? While none of you even noticed what was happening to us! It was over two months since the sacrifice. Weeks after Scott and Allison stopped freaking out, but I still woke up screaming and what did you do?"

Lydia bites her lip, guilty suddenly, even though she knows Stiles is playing her. The fox is playing her.

Scott's therefore the one who catches it, " _Us_?" he asks, "Stiles… who are you talking about?"

And the broken expression on his face seems to crack even more and he leans back, looking like he's about to bolt, "Us. Me. Him. We. We get confused. I get confused. I'm me and him and I can speak Japanese now, you know? I know ancient history pretty well but I can play lacrosse and I know the entire history of male circumcision from late nights on Wikipedia and _it's all here_ ," he taps the side of his head, sucking in air. "We're getting better," he whispers, head dropping so he doesn't meet any of their gazes. "We. I. I'm getting better. I'm fine, I'm not going to go on any killing sprees, I'm not going to run off on you."

"Stiles?" Lydia asks, and it's more of a question than an attempt to get his attention.

She achieves both but when he looks up his eyes are silver ringed before he blinks and then they're brown again. "Sort of." he says.

"How did you do it?" she asks.

He shrugs, "I don't know."

They both know he's lying.

 

_"Each morning I appear to lie at your feet. All day I will follow no matter how fast you run. Yet I nearly perish in the midday sun."_

 

The pack think he's possessed. And they're half right but mostly wrong because how can he be possessed if there's nothing to possess? This is who he is now and every day their fractured pieces slip into place together. The fox carved himself a hole and every time he was ripped out it left Stiles more and more broken. But as the Stiles pointed out they were the same, and now they has patched themselves back together. They've fixed themselves with parts of each other and now they are neither but both.

The pack is his anchor, but the pack don't trust him. He lurks in the background, but he knows there are meetings up at Derek's loft that he's not invited too. There are group texts that don't end up sent to him. There are conversations that stop when he grows close.

They don't seem to realise he has better senses now. That he can hear their conversations about exorcisms and how Kira's mom isn't doing anything.

They try a grand total of one exorcism. It's at Deaton's, and Stiles saw it coming but went there anyway in some strange mix of suicidal and desperation.

They've barely gotten twenty words out that Stiles is screaming on the floor, coughing up blood and invisible claws ripping furrows into the floor. His eyes blaze silver and he feels the fragile cracks in his mind, and they aren't just going to slide apart to make two separate pieces, they're going to shatter, and then they'll be nothing left. Another ten words and he lets himself slip unconscious and apparently they only made it another three after that before stopping. Stiles doesn't know. He spends the next thirteen hours unconscious while Deaton struggles to stop the internal bleeding, before discovering that his body is healing itself.

He's weak and starving when he wakes, but he tries to ignore it. Mostly because the quickest way to feed would be to play with everyone's emotions, start fights and piss people off. Chaos and strife.

But he waits a week and then settles for just plain old pain. He slips into the hospital and holds the hand of a dying man. He visits several cancer patients and Melissa catches him when he's with a little girl who is so close to dying he can taste it in the air already. She's still awake, chatting happily to her father while the doctor talks about a promising operation they're planning for her. The doctor takes the father out to talk and Stile slips in. He listens to her talk, forces a smile and picks up a book and begins reading when Melissa arrives to take the girl's blood pressure.

She almost drops her clipboard, eyes fixed on where Stiles is holding her hand, where the black lines run from the girl to him and under his sleeve. "Stiles," she says, sharply, "What are you doing here?"

"He's reading to me," the little girl pipes up, and she looks better than she has in weeks, without the weight of the pain. It rests of Stiles' shoulders now, and it tastes bitter and cloying and not half as good as he knows it would taste if it was from chaos or destruction that he had wrought.

"I think Stiles' should go now," Melissa says through gritted teeth, and she looks at him warily.

She calls Scott. Obviously. The alpha doesn't look to happy and Derek follows after. Stiles just tilts his head at them, smirking because if they were going for intimidation then they both failed in that department.

They end up going for brute force though when the twins show and Stiles' is pretty sure that Aidan was going to strangle him but he catches the wrist and snaps the bone before the omega can.

They lock him in the basement then.

It's chilly, but he's always cold now, so he barely notices. He can hear them talking, and Scott does actually speak up in his defence. "He's not hurting anybody. He was just taking pain. I do that to the animals at the clinic all the time."

"That little girl he was with? She's dead. Scott, what if it was Stiles?"

"What if it wasn't? She had a brain tumour. She was dying anyway. He just made it painless."

"He's a trickster. Stiles and that fox both, and we don't know which one is which. Fuck, Scott, even Stiles doesn't know who he is. You can see he pretends, but he keeps slipping into plural."

The pack is his anchor, but the pack don't trust him. Maybe if they did he'd be talking in first person like a normal person, but they just serve to keep reminding him he's not normal.

Not anymore.

 

He gives them four hours. By then the house is quiet. They had chosen Stiles' house because Scott's place didn't have a basement. The Sheriff had gone off on his shift, and Kira had gone to talk to her parents. Chris Argent is lurking around outside with a gun, Allison probably there too. Scott had lingered there for a while, and the doorbell had rung.

It was hard to hear through the walls, but Stiles just hears the lilting tones that he vaguely recognised. Whoever it is, Scott chooses that point to leave to chat with Deaton, and so Stiles took his chance.

He picks the basement lock with ease. He doesn't worry about the Argents outside. He just avoids the windows and popped into the kitchen, putting on the kettle and finding a mug. He's freezing. He's cold anyway, but the basement doesn't help. He's shivering, and there hadn't been food or even a blanket.

He ignores the pang of hurt in his chest and just busies himself with making himself something to warm him up.

"Stiles?"

He freezes, turning. "Malia?" he asks.

She lingers in the doorway, uncertain, "Scott said you were meant to be locked up," she says. "He said you were dangerous. Did you… did you fix things or…?" she pauses, and Stiles remembers the last time they'd seen her, strapped down and helpless.

He shakes his head and stops, "Sort of. I tried to, but now I think I just made things worse. You… you got out of Eichen, I see." he says lamely.

"Morrell helped. I gave Scott the sword and photograph we found," Malia says.

"Thanks," Stiles says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

"No," she shakes her head, "Thank you. Scott says he's going to help me learn control. And you saved me from having my head drilled open."

"If it wasn't for us then you would never have been in danger of having your head drilled open in the first place," Stiles points out.

If she notes the use of plural she doesn't say anything. "I'm glad you're better," she says.

"I'm not," his head jerks sharply, "At least… they don't think so. They're still trying to fix me."

"Sometimes," she shrugs, "Things don't need fixing."

The boiling kettle has Stiles turning, switching it off as he grabs his mug and pours the hot water.

"Can I have some?" Malia stares hungrily at the steam rising off.

"Still trying to get warm?" he asks, wryly. "Yeah, been having that problem myself lately." he grabs another mug and spoons in some coffee.

She pulls a face at the flavour but drinks most of it while it's still boiling. Stiles sips his slowly and heads to the living room to sit down. Malia follows. "I'm supposed to keep an eye on you," she says, "So don't go anywhere."

He is silent.

"Scott seemed really freaked out," she notes, "But I don't see why. I know… I'm not good at this human thing yet, but I don't see anything wrong."

"Well obviously everyone else does," Stiles blows a little on his mug, "They're right. We're wrong. We're something new."

"They can't expect you to stay the same," she shrugs, dropping her empty mug on the table, "My dad… he expects to have his little girl back. Not a feral kid. They expect you to be whoever you were before."

"And I'm not," he summarises, "I mean… I am. But there's more and it's all mixed together."

"If you want my opinion," and she leans on his one arm, and he doesn't protest. Her lack of personal space is oddly comforting. "Which you probably don't, but here it is anyway: I don't see much difference. I don't know you as well as them, though."

"There isn't a difference," Stiles whispers, wrapping one arm around her as he finishes his coffee, "We were always the same and somehow I think that scares them more."

 

_"What does man love more than life, Fear more than death or mortal strife. What the poor have, the rich require, And what contented men desire. What the miser spends and the spendthrift saves, And all men carry to their graves."_

 

When Scott arrives back with Deaton, the Argents trailing behind they head straight to the basement.

The door is hanging open and there is no Stiles.

Scott swears. He runs a hand through his hair, "I'll call Derek," he says, "See if we can pick up a scent." he backs up the stairs, "Maybe the twins. Isaac… Malia's obviously gone otherwise he'd still be here… dammit..."

"Scott," Allison calls quietly from the doorway, "There's no need."

Scott hurries to her side and freezes, because Stiles hasn't cut and run. He's still here, curled up under a pile of blankets and what looks like his duvet from his bed. Malia is pressed against him. Stiles looks pale, ill, and he's shivering even under the pile of blankets and sharing Malia's body heat.

Chris and Deaton stand next to them. Deaton turns to Scott, "How sure are you that Stiles is completely gone?" he asks.

Scott stares helplessly, and as if feeling the weight of his gaze Malia's eyes flutter open. She doesn't move, just blinks sleepily at them. "Scott?" she asks. "He was cold." she says, by way of explanation. "He still is, he's like ice."

"I think we should head home," Chris rests a hand on Allison's shoulder. "Let us know if you need anything."

Scott shakes his head, "I don't think there's anything we can do." he sounds guilty and Deaton turns to the true alpha.

"This isn't your fault, Scott." he says gently, "Stiles did this to himself."

"Because we weren't there," Scott says helplessly, "Because we couldn't save him."

"Because he wanted to live. To survive. For you. For the pack. He beat the fox, Scott. He may not be entirely Stiles anymore, but he's more Stiles than fox."

 

Stiles slips into a seat next to Danny and the other teenager gives him the most disgusted look, "Do you need me for bribery? Hacking?" he asks, "Or do you want to steal my Physics project again?"

Stiles manages rather a successful hurt look. "Why? Would I do something like that?" he asks.

Danny glances surreptitiously over his shoulder, "They're all staring at you. As if they think you're going to eat me." he pauses, "Oh god. Are you going to eat me? Have you been bitten by a vampire or something? Because werewolves are one thing, but vampires?"

Stiles blinks, "I shouldn't be surprised that you know about us, but I somehow am."

"Jackson told me before he went off to London," Danny shrugs, "So why aren't you hanging around with your pack?"

"They think I'm possessed," Stiles sighs.

"And are you?" Danny frowns.

"Not really…" Stiles pauses, "I was. I mean… I had a very evil spirit sitting in my head, but then I kind of out-tricked it, but it was in my head too deep and we ended up merging. So now I can speak Japanese, recite history for the last 1000 years, because you know, I'm a thousand years old. Except don't ask me about the last fifty years because I spent that buried under an ancient oak tree."

Danny blinks. "Okay. Pretending I understood any of that, is there a reason you're sitting with me?"

Stiles shrugs helplessly, "I can be me." he says, "The pack, they're expecting two different people, and it confuses us. Me. It confuses me." he sighs, "Usually I'm okay, but with the way they look at us, we keep…" he waves a hand, "We get confused."

Danny's face is sympathetic, "I still only understood about half of that, but it sounds like you went on one hell of a bender. One that was bad enough for you to take a month off. Have you spoken to them? Or someone?"

"The last time I tried to talk, Scott locked me in the basement. And there's this werecoyote who keeps leaving dead animals on my front porch, like I'm supposed to be impressed or something. And she sort of gets it, but I just…" his voice breaks slightly, "I need them. And they don't… nobody needs me. They need Stiles, or who they think is Stiles and not me. I can't be who they want me to be."

"Well I'm Mr. No Expectation," Danny says, "But I do expect dinner first."

"Do you prefer your rabbit rare or raw? 'Cause Scott doesn't like blood and prefers rare, but Isaac is all for the raw."

Danny sighs as if he's regretting letting Stiles hang out with him already.

 

_"Say my name and I disappear."_

 

"You're not well." It's the first thing she says to him when she answers the door.

And it's true. He's shivering again, and he's starving. The pain he took at the hospital did almost nothing to sate the hunger, and he knows he's so close to just going on a full blown serial killing spree and he doesn't know what else to do.

Noshiko looks neither pleased to see him on her doorstep, nor sympathetic.

"There must be a way," he says, "We don't…" he stops, takes a deep breath and closes his eyes and then tries again, "I don't want to hurt anybody. Not that I have any objections against hurting anybody, but Scott wouldn't like it."

"Scott is your moral compass?" the kitsune asks.

"Pretty much. He's always been." Stiles nods, "We're different, you and I, but we're the same too."

"I don't feast on pain and chaos," she sounds insulted. "I don't take possession of teenage boys."

"I don't tend to make a habit of it," this was a bad idea. He's just getting riled up, "In fact I was running around quite happily in Canada somewhere scavenging off kills made by an actual wolf pack when someone decided the best method of vengeance was to yank me out and dump me in the middle of a pile of bodies." he smirks, "Picking your boyfriend did make it worth it though."

The kitsune's eyes flash and he steps backwards before she draws a sword on him.

"I'm asking for help," he snaps, "If you can't do anything, then tell me that I'm wasting my time."

"You want my advice?" she asks, leaning closer, "I'd kill you myself except whatever you did to yourself screwed you up more than I'd ever manage on my own. But if you want help, take this." and she pulls out the sword Stiles knew she had. "Kira re-forged it. You don't want to hurt people? Take it and stab yourself with the blade. End this. End your friend's suffering at watching you twist the boy that's still there inside you. Leave nothing more than bad memories."

Stiles flinches back. "I think we're done here," he says, calmly. He doesn't take the sword.

He turns to head for the door, but he hears her words still. "Because your kind always end up hurting people. Always."

 

So for a week he keeps himself occupied. He cuts the power to the block where the Yukimura's live. Kira gets the blame because if she happened to be practising with her powers at that precise moment, well… who was Stiles to know?

He slips into the Argent's apartment and takes all the firing pins out of their guns. He swaps all their wolfsbane out with lavender too. At the clinic he opens all the animal cages while Scott may or may not be on shift. None got further than the corridor or operating theatre, but listening to Scott attempt to herd them all back into cages before Deaton got back was worth it.

Hanging around Malia is usually cathartic enough. She's a whirl of emotions that usually keeps him calm. Jackson's lacrosse kit gets misplaced and ends up in Isaac's locker, and it's harmless, but Stiles doesn't complain when the two almost wolf out in the middle of lacrosse practise. Scott is the only thing that keeps them from ripping each other's throats out.

He also coats the door handles of Derek's loft with mountain ash, which is trickier now he can't touch it. He steals a bucket from Deaton's while Scott is trying to coax a cat down from a high book shelf, and mixes it with glue, then paints the glue on the door handles. Derek ends up being locked out, while Peter, joyfully, ends up stuck in the bathroom. It may or may not have been planned on Stiles' half.

He doesn't even try anything with Lydia. Lydia appears aware of that because she drops down in front of Stiles and Danny at lunch one afternoon. Danny looks between them and throws his hands in the air, leaving just like that. It's probably wise.

"You're avoiding us," she accuses.

"I'm not who you want me to be," he says, "And you look at me as if I'm going to turn around and stab you."

"You've done that before," she reminds him.

He acknowledges that with a tilt of his head.

"What was with the pranks?" she asks, "Although I don't really know if they're harmless enough to be called pranks…"

"Who wants to bet that Derek attempts to open his door and when he couldn't bellowed out _'Stiles'_ very loudly?" Stiles asks, rhetorically, "It helps you identify with who I am, and I get some chaos. It's a win-win situation."

"Then why?" and now she fixes him with a piercing glare, "Why haven't you done anything to me?"

"Who's to say I haven't?" he grins, and stands and leaves her there. He hasn't touched Lydia, her stuff, her dog, anything. That would be dangerous, even he knows that. But her confusion and panic as she tries to think, to see if he has, works just as well.

 

He finally is sated when the hunters roll into town. They're after the twins, and something else nobody's figured out yet. But there are guns and wolfsbane wounds leaking black blood. Scott chokes and Stiles leans over his friend, and Scott coughs up black blood and Stiles takes away black pain.

"Stiles," he protests, and he looks scared, but at least, Stiles reflects, he's not in pain.

"Here," he drops a lighter on his friend's chest, "Burn it out."

"Where are you going?" Scott asks, hand clutching weakly at Stiles' sleeve, "Stiles, don't hurt…"

"Shh," Stiles slips out of Scott's grasp, "You'll be fine. I'm going to check on Derek and Peter."

Peter as it turns out, has run away already. Derek is stumbling along with Aiden slung over his shoulder.

The pair stumble to a halt when the hunter steps in front of them, and so Stiles slips behind, not even bothering to announce his presence as he frames the man's head in his hands and calmly snaps the man's neck.

The body drops to the ground and he smirks as it falls. "Well?" he looks up at the wolves, "Better get running."

His grin is dangerous, razor sharp, and he dances off into the trees. He doesn't go looking for hunters. He's looking for his pack, and he finds them one by one. Isaac he finds completely by accident when the wolf stumbles out, just as a knife flies through the air towards the yellow eyed beta.

Stiles catches it. His reflexes are just that good. He spins it around, head tilting, and eyes flashing silver, "That wasn't very nice," he sighs, and he flicks his wrist.

The knife buries itself blade first in the man's throat and then Stiles is there, hand on neck, on bare skin, sucking up pain. He closes his eyes, because the violence is rough, course, but it's fresh and for the first time in days his limbs stop shaking.

He doesn't turn to see Isaac's expression. He knows Allison has joined him, but he lets the man drop as he dies, and stands, pausing for a moment to scent the air before trotting off to see where Kira has got to.

Later Scott doesn't say anything. He looks at Stiles though, like he knows what he did, but he says nothing.

Stiles does send the Argent's a box filled with all the wolfsbane he pilfered from them and the hunters. It’s a large enough supply to take down all the wolves in Northern America.

He sits with the pack at lunch now, and nobody talks about who he is or isn't.

They like it better that way.

 

Stiles isn't quite Stiles anymore. But he's better, and so that's what he tells everyone. Isaac and Allison move to France. Jackson barely speaks to anyone in the pack. The twins run from the hunters chasing them. Then Derek gets abducted to Mexico and there's Kate back, a deadpool list, a new beta, and it's too much work to try and explain what he is. Nogitsune would probably be pretty truthful, but he doesn't like reminding the pack about that.

So he keeps it short and simple.

"What are you now?"

"Better."

 

_But when the sun catches him at the right angle, his shadow twists until it looks almost like there is a nine-tailed fox, trotting at his heels._


	2. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has it but no-one can lose it... But even though you can't see your shadows in regions of morally grey doesn't mean it isn't there.
> 
> No-one can see their shadow in the darkness anyway.
> 
> [In which he's not quite Stiles and he's not quite the nogitsune either, and the world is just going to have to deal with that.]

_“What runs but can never walk. What sings but can never talk. It lacks arms, but it has hands. It lacks a head but it has a face.”_

_They’re running out of time._

 

He’s awoken at night by the window opening. He listens for a moment to the tiny metallic click as the latch opens; the grating as the wood slides upwards and the squeak of a shoe as somebody climbs in. He listens to her breathing - in out in out - and on his tongue is the bitter taste of cherries. Chaos and conflict follow her every thought and decision, and there is a feral nature about them that makes him shiver.

Without a word he adjusts himself, allowing space for her to slip down beside her. He’s cold, but her presence alone sends warmth seeping through him. She slips in next to him, on her side and facing him. Her legs are tucked up, toes cold where they are buried against his side.

He doesn’t say anything, and gradually her breathing evens out in the slow steady lull of sleep.

He sleeps too with the small ball of coyote curled up against him. He dreams. He dreams in black and white and red of times long gone. He sees battlefields and smoking buildings, red red fire eating away at skin and flesh. There is the flash of swords and Peter screams as the Molotov consumes him and his daughter punches him in the face and someone whose name he’s forgotten kisses him, smiling and laughing right up until he snaps her neck like a twig and watches the body fall just like Cora falls to the ground bleeding in the head bleeding red red blood that seeps out staining the soil and ground and his fingers trace through it because its oh so beautiful like Lydia’s red red hair and the fire and the chaos that sparks red as he walks unharmed through the destruction a different body different time but still the same and--

 

Stiles wakes. Malia is curled up at his back and the sun shines through the still ajar window. For the first time in a long time he wakes with no sense of ‘him’ and ‘I’ but just an overwhelming contentment and self-made peace with himself.

He stretches out, the coyote stirring at his back and he remembers different bodies and other lovers and the way he’d leave them bloodied and broken.

Malia’s already broken though, she’s already scarred and he can see it in her eyes. The sight of it is beautiful - the sight of her is beautiful and best of all she’s already his.

So he rolls over, greeting her with a smile and kisses, letting her dig her claws into him as his eyes flash open.

The iris’ are ringed with mercury silver.

 

“Who the hell is that?”

Lydia honestly has no idea why Jackson bothered even coming back to Beacon Hills. He’s done nothing but complain since he’s got here. He complains that Derek isn’t the alpha anymore; he complains about following Scott; he complains that she won’t date him; he complains that everyone’s acting weird; he complains that nobody tells him what’s going on.

She sighs and follows his gaze down the corridor as she closes her locker. She misses Allison, misses her friend’s laugh and smile but at least she’s alive, she and Isaac both.

“Is that Stilinski?” Jackson sneers, and Lydia blinks at the figure wandering down the corridor. One of them is indeed Stiles, and he even walks differently. He’s more confident, calmer and still ever since the nogitsune. He’s still Stiles though, strangely and inexplicably, but Lydia is finding it hard matching the image of her friend with the dark smirk or occasional immoral idea he keeps throwing their way.

Then she leaves Scott and Stiles for a few days and they come up with a plan that the old Stiles would have thought up.

It’s called Mexico, and Lydia doesn’t like it.

Jackson however is staring past the no-longer-human teenager. Instead he’s staring at the girl walking besides him because oh-

“Where the hell did Stilinski get a girl like that?” Jackson asks.

Lydia stalks towards them, leaving Jackson behind. Malia’s smile is hesitant and confused as Lydia stops in front of her. “Hi,” Lydia says, and suddenly she realises she’s cautious and confused too.

“Lydia,” Stiles is charms and smiles and it’s so not him it makes her shiver, “Meet Malia.”

“The coyote,” Lydia says, examining the girl. She can see why Jackson was staring - the girl is beautiful. Wild though, and that’s obvious in the dress and the way her hair hangs loose and untamed over her shoulders.

“I’m a human now,” Malia points out.

“I can see that.” She says. Lydia can also see the resemblance to Peter, in the coarseness of her tone, the shape of the eyes. The colour is wrong, but there’s just something there that is familiar to her.

That’s when Jackson stops next to her and she turns to him, and then glances back at Malia.

Stiles is smirking and she wants to punch him in the face. He sees her looking and just nods smugly, as if he’s known all along. There’s a glint in his eyes that suggests to her he’s only just worked it out, just like she has, at simply seeing the two together. Malia’s examining Jackson with interest and at first glance they don’t look similar. Male and female, eyes different shades, different shapes, but then they tilt their head the same direction and yep.

“If it makes you feel better,” Stiles slips past her, voice in her ear, “I had no idea. I mean… I knew she was adopted but…”

And Lydia shouldn’t tell him. Not this Stiles who looks positively gleeful at discovering secrets if only because he can rip them apart and feed them bit by bit in the wrong people’s ears, but still… “Peter’s their father,” she drags Stiles to the side and crashes her locker closed as she says it, to stop the other two from overhearing.

She watches Stiles’ expression slip from surprise to amusement to alarm and then to quiet contemplation.

“Don’t.” she threatens, “Just don’t.”

“You still watch me as if you expect me to turn around and stab someone,” Stiles pulls away from her, slightly angry and hurt. The frustration there is all Stiles. Even the twitch in his neck and arms that suggests he wants to make a dramatic gesture is all Stiles.

“Melissa found you in the hospital again on the weekend. How long is taking pain from ill humans going to keep you sated?” she challenges.

“Lydia, this is Beacon Hills,” Stiles is unimpressed, “Long enough for the next supernatural threat to roll into town.”

“Long enough for the next threat?” she asks, “Or long enough until we end up in Mexico?”

“Well I’ve never been to Mexico,” Stiles says, smiling thinly. He leans over, brushing a lock of her hair of her face, “It will be a blast,” he whispers, before leaning back. His eyes flash silver as he spins away, a skip to his step.

Lydia watches his back and tries to work out whether she was talking to Stiles or the nogitsune.

 

They end up in Mexico.

Lydia is not happy about it. Malia and Kira come along out of loyalty to their pack. Jackson isn’t interested which is just as well because Stiles’ jeep can only seat five at maximum (they have no idea how they’re going to get Derek back, Stiles suggested shoving him in the trunk). They tell their parents they’re going on a camping trip for the weekend, and drive down late Friday, early Saturday.

“For the record, I hate this plan,” Lydia wanders alongside him towards the large doors at the end of the plaza.

“Is that you speaking as a banshee or are you just being pessimistic?” Stiles asks her warily. He’s got no clue how her abilities work, he’s never met a banshee before. She’s not screaming for every death in the country, but everything she finds is relevant to them in some way.

“I’m saying this as a person who doesn’t want to die.”

Stiles briefly debates over how stupidly mortal he is now (has always been really). It’s odd, because he and Lydia are both not human, but they’re both fragile, both not werewolf indestructible.

They can both die so, so easily.

 

“We’re here for Derek Hale. We’ve heard you can be bought.”

Stiles drops the money on the table. Blood money, and he remembers ripping the men apart to get it.

“Now where…” Araya leans forwards, “Does a teenage boy get fifty thousand dollars? The Japanese mafia maybe?”

And Lydia is probably right, this is a terrible plan, but Stiles leans forwards, hands on the table, “Yes.” He says, meeting her gaze, ignoring the sound of guns cocking.

And Araya senses that something is wrong. She looks at him warily, “It wasn’t smart to come alone.”

“What makes you think we came alone?”

“You brought a wolf into my home?”

“No,” Stiles smirks, “We brought an Alpha.”

If the hunter was unhappy before she’s definitely unhappy now.

“We don’t like to lose,” Stiles picks up ten thousand dollars and puts it back in his pocket. Pay dirt, he thinks.

“Maybe you should take the deal,” Lydia suggests, gesturing to what is left on the table.

Araya smiles, “You think Calaveras negotiate over blood money?”

“No,” Stiles admits, piling the cash back up casually into a pile, hand resting on top as he glances up at the huntress, “I think you’ll negotiate under pressure.” And his eyes spark silver.

The huntress is out of her seat in an instant, staring at him. Lydia tries not to look put off by the guns that are pointed at Stiles’ head. Stiles himself tries to ignore them, and tries not to think about how if he got shot it would hurt and would take a while to heal and would probably kill him. He doesn’t know if he can die. He’s not exactly tried it out and he’s not exactly planning to.

“You’d be correct,” Araya is staring at him, trying to work out what he is. The hunters have scoped out Beacon Hills, driven the twins out, and spoken to Argent. They know about Lydia and they know about Derek.

“Oh?” Stiles asks.

And they know about Stiles too, “We deal under pressure,” she smiles, “You should take better care of your friends, _zorro_ , when negotiating with a hunter of over forty years’ experience.” She glances at the radio casually, “Severo.”

Stiles is out of his seat, regardless of the guns as he hears the coughing and sound of steam or gas. “Wolfsbane,” he hears Scott cough out and well this plan went sideways pretty quickly.

“You’re the one that ripped apart my hunters,” Araya is watching him with calm, measured eyes, “The one they call void?”

Lydia snorts slightly, and Stiles just tilts his head to one side, because she’s technically right, and yet technically wrong. He shrugs, grinning with too many teeth, “Only when I feel like it.” He says.

It turns out that while wolfsbane doesn’t hurt him, wolf lichen still does the trick.

 

He wakes to Malia crouched over him. “Where are the others?” he murmurs, dazed.

“They took Lydia,” Malia whispers, “Then they took Scott and Kira. Scott says they don’t have Derek.”

Stiles groans, and his hands shake as he tries to prop himself up. He’s going to rip the hunters apart, he thinks bitterly. He’s done playing nice.

“I say when the door opens again we take out whoever’s standing in the way and run for it,” Malia tells him, gesturing around at the cold grey room they’re in.

Stiles shakes his head, “What about the others?”

“What about them?”

Malia is a lot like Peter, Stiles thinks, the sense of self-preservation is strong. He’s not going to take to hanging around with Peter just so he doesn’t feel like he’s going to die of starvation though, so he shakes his head to explain to her, “We can’t leave them behind. We don’t leave without people.”

“Why not?” Malia asks, confused.

“Because they’re friends,” Stiles says, and for some part of him that is completely and utterly true.

For the other half it’s a complete and utter lie, but Stiles ignores that.

 

According to Malia both she and Scott have attempted to get out through the thick steel door of the room. Stiles stares at it for a while, before crouching down and putting his fingertips to the lock.

Static sparks between his hand and the metal and above him the lights flicker. He glances upwards, with a frown. He can’t hear as well as the wolves can, but he can still hear the scream that is forced out of Scott’s jaws.

Malia’s eyes flash blue, “They’re killing him,” she whispers.

His fingers tap against the metal, frustration mingling with contemplation. His mind is racing a dozen different directions. Malia shifts impatiently behind him.

His fingers slow, and spread out, until his palm rests on the lock. He closes his eyes and when he opens them again they are silver spun and the lock is clicking open.

“How did you do that?” Malia whispers, as the door swing open to reveal a man standing there, a hunter, and black drips down from his ear where the fly crawled its way into his head. Stiles is still crouched down, and he can feel the man under his control, can twist his grip in the man’s mind, but it’s still easier to just let Malia bound past him with a snarl and blue eyes and to rip out his throat.

The man dies with a gurgle and when Stiles tries to stand he’s dizzy, weak. He bends over the guy as he dies, hand seeking out the still racing pulse as black lines race up his hand. Then there is nothing else to draw up because the man is dead and he coughs one last time, blood dribbling down his throat along with a fly which gives one last buzz and dies with its host.

Malia is frowning at him as he straightens, “Come on,” he says, “We need to get the others.”

This time she doesn’t argue with him, she just follows behind as he leads them along the corridor and around to where there must be stairs.

They round the corner straight into a hunter. He pulls out a knife but Stiles is faster, hand shooting out to wrap around the other guy’s wrist, twisting it around and slamming the guy’s own knife backwards into the hunter’s stomach.

The hunter chokes and Stiles watches with disinterest, leaving the knife buried in his gut as he brings his hands up to the throat and squeezes.

The body falls a minute later and Stiles steps over it, sated, “Mind the body,” he warns Malia behind him. She makes a noise in the back of her throat but doesn’t say anything.

 

The others are in a room on the ground floor, sunlight pouring in through the window. Scott and Lydia are handcuffed to chairs, and Kira stands next to the large and burly Severo. Araya is positioned in front of Scott, and so she has her back to them when they finally make their way up to the right room.

“Tell me!” Araya is shouting, “Who actually has Derek? Who had a reason, a vendetta particular to the Hales?”

“I don’t know!” Scott protests, and Stiles can see what they’re doing, can see the way Kira turns the dial, wincing as she does so and Scott lets out another cry of pain.

Malia moves forwards before Stiles can stop her, snarling and going straight for the hunter next to Kira. She knocks him flying and some of the other hunters in the room bring their guns up. Their fingers are literally on the trigger and Stiles is moving forwards, when Araya turns and brings a gun up to point directly at Stiles.

“Mexican standoff?” he spreads out his arms and shrugs, grinning weakly. “Hey Scott.”

Scott is shaking off the last of the electricity and he blinks at Stiles, looking worried. Only later Stiles will realise he isn’t worried for Stiles, he’s worried for what Stiles might do next.

Araya frowns at him, “You escaped quicker than I had predicted,” she frowns. “What are you?”

Stiles opens his mouth, pauses and considers the question, “I’ll get back to you on that,” he says, shifting to the side and watching the gun shift to follow him. “Mind pointing that somewhere else?” he asks.

There are footsteps behind and another hunter comes in, babbling something in Spanish. Stiles knows a whole bunch of new languages, but Spanish isn’t one of them beyond his high school education. All he has to go on is the way Araya’s expression drops.

“You killed one of my hunters!” Araya snarls.

“What? _That_?” Stiles is indignant, “It was an _accident_!”

“Stiles,” Scott is giving him that look again and Stiles ducks his head, neck arching as he tries to work out what he’s done wrong.

“Okay,” Stiles would wave his hands around if there wasn’t a gun pointed at his head liable to shoot him, “So maybe it was on purpose. Your point?”

“We hunt those who hunt us,” Araya quotes, and Stiles sighs as the gun still points unwaveringly at his forehead, “I think this applies, even to you, zorro.”

“No,” Scott chokes out, straining against the chains, “Please, don’t, he’s still getting used to it…”

Stiles isn’t a fan of begging, “You going to kill me?” his head tilts to the side, “You really think you can?” he lets his lips twitch into a grin, “Wanna chance it?” he offers, hands spread. His eyes meet the huntress’, and she examines him, wary and unsure. A nogitsune on its own is one thing, but Stiles? He’s new. He’s a trickster spirit in a mortal body with mortal memories and a pack he has to defend.

She lowers the gun. “Answer the question, Scott. Who could have taken Derek?”

“I don’t know,” Scott whispers.

Araya spins the gun around and shoots the machine Kira stands by. Kira flinches back and the machine sparks. Malia even turns from the guns pointed at her. The wires flash and Scott lets out a cry.

But Lydia sits there, pale and also connected. Stiles isn’t even aware that he’s moved forwards until he is already there, crouched in front of her and gripping the metal of the manacles before the electricity can touch her. He meets her gaze, wide-eyed and for the first time feels scared, worried for his friends.

He barely feels the electricity crackling under his skin; he just watches Lydia’s shoulders slump slightly in relief as Stiles absorbs it before it can even get to her.

Next to him, Scott roars and the manacles snap as he surges upright. The wires are still sparking, but Scott’s no longer connected as he sinks back down.

“Say the name,” Araya ignores Stiles now, staring at Scott, “Say it.”

Scott looks up, eyes red and breathing heavily. “Kate,” he whispers.

He hears Lydia’s gasp and glances at her, “Can you get turned by a scratch?” she asks him.

“I…” Stiles stops, and thinks. Kate. Kate Argent. Peter ripped her throat out and left her bleeding on the floor.

He knows the answer. It’s old, ancient, and the werewolf curse never just passes on simply.

Another gunshot rings out and the machine stops sparking. Stiles doesn’t let go of the chains, afraid that if he does Lydia might still get hurt. He glances over his shoulder to see Araya glancing between him and Scott.

“If the claws go deep enough.” He whispers to Lydia.

“Who’s Kate?” Malia whispers, as Stiles finally uncoils his hands from the chain around Lydia. He grabs one, and pulls, snapping it with ease. Lydia flinches and he doesn’t look at her.

“A hunter,” Scott whispers, “An Argent.” He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, “She’s Allison’s aunt.”

 

“Is that him?” Malia asks when they reach the church. It’s the only thing standing in the ruins, and the whole place has an atmosphere that makes Stiles feel sleepy and content without even having to do something. He’s never strayed so far south and the nagual and their gods are unfamiliar to him. He’s been all over the world from Japan to Africa to Europe and then across to America when the pilgrims came. And he knows a lot - he’s almost a walking bestiary now and it’s useful as hell as times, but there is stuff that even he doesn’t know.

And this… this is one of them. Malia stares at the guy leaning on Scott’s should and then looks back at Stiles. Lydia and Kira turn to him too - both are in disbelief because this isn’t who they came to look for.

“Is _that_ Derek?”

And he just wants to laugh because this is the funniest thing he’s seen in a long, long time. It’s the best trick Kate could have played and he can’t even understand why she’s done it.

Derek looks up in a daze, fifteen or sixteen years old, hanging between Scott and Braeden and Stiles finally gives into the temptation to laugh.

 

Stiles finds this whole thing amusing.

Lydia doesn’t, which is why she kicks Scott and Stiles out to go to school while she looks after Derek with Deaton.

 

“Where’s Scott?” Derek squints around at Scott’s gloomy house. The younger version is far brighter, far more talkative, it’s almost annoying. Stiles has gone over an hour without a glare or a threat, just those puppy dog eyes that make him long to hit the kid, except then he’d feel guilty after wards and Stiles doesn’t do guilt, not after he changed.

“He’ll be here. But for now we are just going to sit here and wait. Okay? We are going to sit down and not talk to anybody.”

“Can I talk to you?”

“No.” Stiles may give into his urge to rip the precious kid Derek into little pieces sooner rather than later if that happens.

“Can I talk to him?”

Stiles whirls around and he’s pretty sure his eyes flash silver, but he gets it under control as Agent McCall looms out of the dark. “Woah,” he blinks, “Are you getting taller?” he sighs, lip curling slightly as he waits for Raphael’s reply of idiocy.

He holds a bag of food, “I’m meant to be meeting Scott for dinner.” He says. And yep, there it is.

“Well I’m not Scott.” Stiles grins, “But he’ll be here soon. Probably. Maybe.”

“Who’s this?”

“Der-“

“My cousin. Miguel.” Stiles grins, “From Me-xi-co.”

Derek levels him a confused look that in ten years’ time will develop into the famous Hale glare, eyebrows and all. It’s still in progress at the moment.

Raphael’s look says that he knows Stiles is lying, but the truth is probably weirder so it’s safer not to ask. So he just decided to play with them and drops straight into Spanish.

Stiles should start learning Spanish. He really should. Or maybe he should just start talking Japanese or Latin or French or one of the other few languages he knows. Like Polish.

Or yeah… maybe not that last one.

Then Derek responds in perfect, fluent Spanish and Stiles just blinks at the wall in shock.

“Great. You hungry?” Raphael holds up the bag of food, “There’s plenty here.”

“Yeah! Awesome.” Derek stalks forwards and Stiles just stands there, faking a grin while planning how to kill the little bastard and not get away with it. He’d never thought he’d miss the old Derek, but when replaced with this kid, Stiles misses the older one.

 

There’s more Derek showing when the kid slams Stiles up against the wall, demanding about his family, about the fire, about where Scott is because he’ll talk to Scott but not Stiles and someone explain to him what’s going on.

“How about you don’t do that?” Stiles grabs one of Derek’s hands and twists it away. Derek’s younger eyes widen at Stiles’ strength and he lets go, tearing out of the grip. He staggers backwards and Stiles eyes him for a moment, eyes alighting silver.

“What are you?” Derek asks.

Stiles just sighs, “I really need to find an answer to that.”

That doesn’t help. Derek just looks more confused and Stiles is starting to feel sorry for kid Derek again.

“Wait here,” he instructs, “I’ll go phone and see where Scott is. He’s the alpha, he can deal with this.” That is of course why Stiles returns to the room on the phone with Scott and wondering where Kate is, only to see Kate vanish through the window with a smirk and dramatic hair blowing.

Stiles grits his teeth. “Scott, you really need to get a lock on your window.”

 

“Wait a second,” Stiles’ face splits into a gleeful grin and he points with the metal baseball bat at Peter, sprawling on the floor of his vault “You were robbed?”

“It was a heist.” Peter stands slowly, turning around with a bitter look on his face, as if he had eaten something sour, “Somebody planned this.”

“What did they take?” Lydia asks cautiously, head tilted to one side.

“Bearer bonds.” Peter growls out, “One hundred and seventeen.”

“Thousand?” Stiles whistles, because that’s a lot of money.

“Million.” Peter snarls, and - wow - that’s even more money and Stiles can’t help it.

He laughs, “You got robbed,” he’s still grinning, ignoring the look Lydia shoots him and the way Peter’s face just sinks into a mask of unpleasantness. “You…” he shakes his head and puts a hand over his mouth to stop himself laughing, “They stole all your cash. Maybe now you’re going to have to get a job. Do some real work for once in your life.”

“Why you…” Peter’s eyes flash and Lydia steps back. Stiles doesn’t even move. “You got your own cash reserves stored away, little fox?” he glares at Stiles.

“If I did I wouldn’t be telling you.” Stiles just grins, still sniggering behind his hands. “I can’t believe someone went through Kate, got her down here with false tales of control and a magic talisman, just to steal Peter Hale’s family fortune.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Lydia smile slightly. “You know.” She says, “That’s almost poetic. I guess.” She eyeballs Peter, “You can finally feel what it’s like to be on the other end of the spectrum, at the mock of someone’s plan.” She steps back, glancing at Stiles. “I think we’re done here.”

“Oh yeah,” Stiles is still smirking, “We’re so done.”

Peter still looks like he wants to rip Stiles’ throat out, so Stiles mockingly turns his back, sliding into place behind Lydia as they head back towards the stairs.

“I want to find whoever stole Peter’s money,” Lydia whispers to Stiles, fully aware that Peter can still hear them, “And shake their hand.”

“To be honest,” Stiles muses, “I’d just steal the cash back.”

“Well you would,” Lydia sniffs, “You’re a trickster.” She pauses, “You didn’t steal it, did you? Hire someone to throw flash bombs and come down and collect it?”

“If I had known about the Hale vault,” Stiles promises her, “The cash wouldn’t have even been there to steal in the first place.”

 

The cash turns out to be funding a deadpool.

Scott’s more worried about his baby beta and Stiles just turns away, concentrating on Malia and the chaotic emotions pouring off her that just get worse with the rise of the moon. He stays with her, even when she wants him to run, and instead he babbles off his mouth. He talks about the past and the present and the time those two just became one within him and how he can’t really define what he is anymore.

“Better,” is what he had told Liam. “I got better,” is what he whispers to Malia, even as her cuffs begin to rip off. “Better at not causing pain. Better at not ripping apart this whole town and painting it red even though we wanted to. Better at accepting that the moment that mirror in my head broke and there was no longer two of me, but just one, that I gave up what little control I had left. Better because I survived and I came through it, stronger, a little more twisted, but alive. Better because in the long run: control? Is overrated.”

She lunges forwards with a snarl but he just catches her, lets her struggle and shove at him until something inside her snaps and she collapses into him. He wraps one arm around to hold her up and a hand cups her face gently.

“You see?” he says, words curling on his tongue, and she just sobs brokenly. Because in the end that’s all they are. A bunch of broken teenagers that keep finding the bodies.

Stiles thinks Cora was right to get out while she still could. Allison and Isaac have also gone, maybe because they saw their own doom if they stayed. Because now there is a list of names and prices and assassins and they’re out of their depth once again.

“Guys, these are professional killers! It’s their _profession_!” he snaps to Scott and Kira, “I’m terrified, and I don’t know if I’m even _on_ the list!”

Scott looks at Kira and she looks back and they’re sharing a moment but both nod, “We’re playing,” Scott says to Stiles, “And stop lying. You’re not scared.”

“Not for me,” Stiles says, straightening, and there is a terrible note of honesty in his voice. “I’m scared for you guys.”

It makes him weak, but it also makes him so, so human.

And he’s not even that anymore.

Because Violet catches Scott with a thermowire around his neck, and Stiles skids in, seeing his alpha _his best friend_ straining to pull it away with his eyes glowing red. He could probably deal with it (Scott’s a true alpha after all) but he’s not just Stiles (except he kind of is).

Violet slams against the locker, his hand at her throat. Scott gasps for breath, eyes crimson as the wire goes limp around his neck. His head turns to where Stiles pins Violet with one hand, eyes molten silver.

“You don’t touch him,” Stiles snaps, “ _Rikai_?” She stares at him with wide eyes so he repeats the question, “Do. you. _understand_?” He grabs her shirt and steps back, swinging her around so that she crashes into the locker opposite. She falls with a bang and tumbles to the ground, looking dazed but still trying to push herself away from him. Stiles stalks after her.

There is blood dribbling down her lips, “You…” she frowns, “You’re not on the list.”

“No?” Stiles asks, crouching down beside her and fixing his hand back in the loose cloth of her top. “Well I probably should be,” he shrugs, standing and tugging her with her, “Because the others? The beta werewolves and the wendigos? _Tsukaisute_. They’re disposable. But my pack? You don’t touch them.”

“Stiles!” Scott staggers up, limping around the corner of the locker ahead of him. “Stiles, let her go!” he snaps, and he’s looking at Stiles as if he’s expecting the fox to just kill her now.

But Stiles doesn’t want to kill her. He wants to send a message. “Go find your little _kareshi_ ,” he snaps, and lets her go. “Well?” he asks, as the assassin tumbles against the locker, trying to stay upright, “Go on then,” she stares at him in fear and anger, “Run, _Onnanoko.”_

She turns and runs. She doesn’t get very far, but it’s the thought that counts, Stiles thinks, as she slams straight into Scott and Scott doesn’t waste time with taunts, he just knocks her straight back into the locker. She’s so out of it already from the concussion Stiles has probably given her that she just drops straight to the ground unconscious.

Scott just looks up at Stiles and he looks disappointed.

“What?” Stiles asks, “I didn’t kill her!”

“You were going to let her get away!” Scott frowns at Stiles, “She was going to kill me! And Brett.”

“Brett?”

Scott pulls a face, “The beta.”

“Oh.” Stiles shrugs, “Well we saved him, huh? And I wasn’t going to let her go away!” he protests, “I was going to use her to find Garrett. Because who wants to bet that he’s dropped underground now?”

Scott still looks at him as though he’s disappointed, as though Stiles has done something wrong. Stiles turns away, heart clenching because he just saved Scott, didn’t he? Well sure - Scott could handle himself, but Stiles had tried to help.

Why did nobody see that?

 

Stiles’ name isn’t on the deadpool.

It’s the only useful thing they know from the young female assassin.

Apparently Peter’s isn’t either. At least not on the two parts of the list they’ve cracked so far. There is obviously something wrong with that, and it doesn’t help that while Derek is getting weaker and weaker Peter’s getting stronger and stronger.

Lydia, at least, doesn’t look at him with saddened eyes. That’s because most of the time she just looks wary and untrusting. Still they sit together and attempt to work out the last part of the deadpool. The last key code. Visiting Meredith produces nothing but a nasty encounter with Brunski who Stiles still wants to tie in ribbons with the guy’s own intestines, the discovery that Parrish is actually kind of cool, and that they won’t be getting anything out of Meredith.

Scott’s somewhere running after Liam and Kate and Garrett with Chris Argent to help him. Malia and Derek are looking for Satomi’s pack. Stiles and Lydia sit and try to crack the code. They type in names. Victoria. Claudia. Talia. Erica. Boyd. Kali. Isaac. Jennifer. Cora. Everyone they know, dead or otherwise.

“It’s not your fault,” Stiles tells Lydia, about Meredith.

“The only other banshee I’ve ever met.” Lydia whispers, “And I might have driven her over the edge.”

Stiles opens his mouth to try and argue against Lydia’s self-blame which is getting them nowhere. But her words have echoed something and Stiles freezes. “Banshee.” He says, “The code names. Allison. Aiden. Allison’s not dead. But you screamed for her, didn’t you?”

Lydia looks at him, “When those hunters drifted through…” she pauses, because she’s probably trying not to remember how those hunters were torn apart by Stiles, “When those hunters drifted through Allison almost got shot. She didn’t…” Lydia pauses, “She didn’t get shot because I told her before she went off to remember to duck. And she did. And she didn’t die.”

“Exactly,” Stiles whispers, “You predicted her death. You predicted Aiden’s too, which is why they cleared out of town so quickly.”

“He was cold,” Lydia gazes into the distance, “Every time I touched him it was like touching a corpse.”

“Like when you thought Derek was going to die in his loft against the alpha,” Stiles elaborates, “They’re the names of people you’ve predicted death for. So who else did you predict death for? Who else did you _scream_ for?”

He isn’t as surprised as he should be when Lydia types in a seemingly random selection of letters into the final key word box.

“What is that?” she frowns, but it cracks the code and she just looks up to Stiles’ heavy gaze. “Stiles? What is that…?”

“It’s my name.” he whispers, “It’s our name. It’s all of ours.”

She glances at him sharply and then clicks enter. Numbers flash across the screen and the cipher begins to work, translating the names. Malia Hale. Liam Dunbar. Jackson Hale. Meredith Walker.

“You’re not there,” Lydia scans the list up and down, “Violet was right - you’re not on there. Because you… you’re already dead.”

“I’m not dead,” Stiles feels cold though, “Allison and Aiden aren’t dead.”

“But you should be,” Lydia turns her gaze to him. “You’re not the nogitsune but you’re not exactly… you’re not exactly Stiles either.”

That’s true. Stiles was human, the fox wasn’t, now they’re a fox with twisted human morals and friends and a shadow that he’s forever stuck in. “Scott once told me…” he says, cautiously, “That I wasn’t Stiles anymore. That I kept saying I was, but that I was the only one who still believed it. And he was right. I’m not Stiles. But I’m not the nogitsune either. I’m something else. Some _one_ else. Someone who is your friend and someone who spent the last hundred years under an oak tree. We are all of us. We needed a different identity.”

She closes her eyes, looking so, so tired and Stiles crouches in front of her, looking up at her.

“But Lydia…” he continues, “I’m not gone. I haven’t left. I… you might have lost a part of me, but I’m still here…”

“You’re not, though.” She whispers, “I screamed for you, you know. I screamed when you were in the hospital having the MRI scan. I could hear it, all day. Like lockers banging closed…” Stiles flinches. “And then I screamed. And that was the moment we lost you.”

He reaches out, half-expecting her to flinch away from his touch, but she lets him cradle her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “You didn’t lose me,” he promises, “I held on, Lydia. It’s why I’m here now. I came back for you guys.” He laughs, slightly bitterly, “I ripped myself apart but I still came back. Just… different.”

“Sometimes…” Lydia whispers, “Sometimes we aren’t meant to come back from these sorts of things. Just look at Peter.”

Stiles should probably be offended at being compared to Peter, but he just accepts it quietly. “Sometimes. But not always.”

“Mostly,” Lydia says again, and this time she meets his gaze, and Stiles can’t tell what emotion resides in her eyes.

He can’t even taste it in the air, so he lets it go and they sit in silence for a while.

 

Jackson is not impressed.

To be honest everybody would probably be happier if the guy had never come back to start with. Malia’s not sure what to think of him as he snaps at Scott about being on a supernatural hit list. She’s on it too, she knows she is. Scott and Stiles haven’t told her yet, but she’ll get it out of them.

She might not understand some things like math and whatever the hell the test they are meant to be sitting is about, but she understands the animal instincts that guide people. Jackson’s scared and lashing out. Scott’s the leader trying to protect his pack. Kira is standing by Scott, her mate, and Stiles…

Malia can’t understand Stiles. He’s too chaotic, jumping from being ecstatic at someone’s pain to being worried about the killers in town.

She thinks she kind of likes that.

At least when he’s not hiding stuff from her. And that’s rare, because Stiles is usually brutally honest with her in a way he’s not with the rest of the pack. He tells her how he has dreams that twist from one psyche to another. He tells her how many ways he could kill the math teacher for her and make it look like an accident. He tells her how he’s pretty sure he’s basically a nogitsune, but with differences because humans aren’t meant to turn into foxes without consequences and he’s never heard of something called a werefox before.

He’s still lying to her. She follows him through the school, following the map that Kira’s dad gave them. They all look ill and it’s affecting them all differently. Scott keeps flashing red eyes and Malia’s claws keep coming out, her fangs pricking her lips. Kira keeps giving people static shocks and the kitsune’s sight is blurred.

And then there is Stiles. Stiles who isn’t human so he’s just as worse off as them, except he’s almost better off. He looks pale, and he’s trembling with shivers wracking his body. They’re wandering around the boiler room looking for a way into the Hale vault when Stiles spots something, dragging Scott to see.

“Ow,” Scott winces, pain flashing across his face, “Stiles… Stiles let go!” he yanks his arm free and there are bloody claw marks in his arm. A shadow passes across Stiles’ face and he stares at the arm, and if Malia didn’t know better she’d say he looked hungry. The last traces of black lines are vanishing up his arm and he snaps out of quickly, stumbling back.

“I think…” he holds out his hands in front of himself, looking wary, “I don’t even know,” he laughs weakly.

“Are you feeding off the illness?” Scott frowns, “Or is it making you sick?”

“I don’t think I’m getting sick,” Stiles says, “Because I’m feeding off the illness. But that… that just makes it worse.” And he shakes his head, eyes flashing silver and for a moment it looks like he has a mouth full of silver fangs and then they’re gone.

Kira shoves aside the shelving unit and stares at the spiral triskellion. “Well this must be it,” she says, “Uh… Scott can we use your claws?”

“We should let Malia do it,” Stiles has wrapped his arms around himself, not touching anybody. Malia looks from him to where Scott stares first at the triskellion, then at Malia.

“Yeah,” the alpha agrees, “Malia, if you will.” He gestures at the door.

She steps forwards, and it’s easy enough because her claws are out already. She reaches forwards, then stops. “No.” she says, “First I want you to tell me what you guys are hiding from me.”

There’s a pause, and Scott shoots Stiles a look as if he’s accusing Stiles of teaching Malia how to blackmail.

“Can we just go in?” Jackson mopes in the background, his fangs bared, “Seriously, why do we need Malia to do it?” and then he steps forwards and slams his own claws into the diagram and twists it around. With a groan the door slides, the whole wall moving aside. Scott’s mouth drops open as he stares at Jackson and then Malia.

“Oh my god.”

Stiles snorts with laughter, and then curls in on himself a little more, “This is brilliant,” he chuckles, “Terribly brilliant.” He closes his eyes, and follows behind them into the vault. It slams closed behind him.

Malia thinks it’s a bad idea locking them in here. They can’t get out easily, and Jackson looks liable to rip their throats out, while Kira may electrocute them. Scott looks just plain sick while Stiles may paint the walls with their blood just to make the hunger stop.

It turns out he doesn’t need blood. He just needs a piece of paper thrust into Malia’s hand. “Because you deserve to know,” he tells her, and she looks up at his silver ringed eyes. He shrugs, “And because I’m going out of my mind here.”

“How much am I worth?” Malia unfolds the paper, and ignores Stiles trying to curl away from him, instead resting on his chest, tugging his jacket around the both of them, “Will I be the next target after Scott or…?”

She sees a three and relaxes slightly. “Good,” she says, “I’m not going to be the first one they come for them. I’m like the tenth or twelfth…” she stops when she reads her name again, next to the number.

Malia Hale.

She looks up and feels stupidly calm about this. She wonders if that’s because Stiles is draining her emotions, one hand running black veins up from where it is wrapped around her wrist.

He didn’t tell her.

At least he did.

He told her. Eventually. He’s probably known for a while.

“Keep looking,” Stiles whispers. She glances back at the list. At where the other names are, because _oh._

“No.” she says, “No way. He’s not a coyote.”

“He was human,” Stiles whispers, “Until the bite. And I swear we didn’t know until we saw you two together.” She looks up at him, and she knows a part of him is enjoying this.

She knows the other part is absolutely distraught at her horror and that is the sole reason why she doesn’t move from where she’s curled into him. They don’t say anything for a while.

 

Scott’s not impressed that he told Malia. Stiles doesn’t think his friend should be impressed, he himself is not impressed. But he had to do it sooner or later and considering they may die soon, the shifters from the poison and Kira when her brain explodes from static electricity and Stiles from that goddamn hunger.

He’ll leave Scott to tell Jackson. To try and wrangle the beta wolf into the pack, into helping. It’s not going to be easy, but if anybody can do it, it’s Scott.

“Did you tell her it’s Peter?” Scott whispers.

“She just knows she’s a Hale.” Stiles replies, glancing to where Malia is curled up in his jacket.

Scott sighs, “You shouldn’t have told her like this.”

“How should I have told her then? Thrown a party? Invited Peter over for dinner and introduced the happy family. Scott, really?” Stiles glances at him, “Considering what we’re going through we can’t keep secrets from each other. Not now. Because we’re losing. Can’t you see that?”

Scott just uncoils one hand, “I think we’ve already lost,” he says, and his hands end in claws that are stained with black poison.

 

Stiles goes out. He goes out because while there may feel like something burrowing under his skin and gnawing on his bones and flesh, he’s not as far gone as the others. He’s also not on the deadpool, which means he’s safer than the others are.

The sickness eats at him and once he’s out there is a moment when he’s tempted to leave. To head out and never look back at Beacon Hills. To trick, to bring strife and chaos to the streets like he had once done.

But there are words wrapped around his heart and a human soul that he now holds in his spirit and Stiles doesn’t want that anymore.

He wants to know who the hell did this so he can find a cure, so he can save his friends and then rip the assassin apart and snap every bone in the guy’s body until he dies screaming and begging for him to finish it.

So he has a little bit of aggression to work through. He can deal.

There is ink on Coach’s mug in the shape of finger prints and there is fresh black ink on the stamps. The same ink they used for the thumb prints, Stiles remembers, and that’s it. That’s all he needs to know who to look for. Who to kill.

“I was wondering how that idiot got sick. I was also wondering where your friends are since in order to get paid by the Benefactor I need to have proof they’re dead.”

The mug shatters and Stiles stands, freezing as the guy finishes screwing on the silencer and points the gun at him.

“Visual confirmation,” Stiles whispers.

“Exactly.”

 

Stiles is forced up and into the locker room with the gun at his back. Everything around him swims and his vision blurs, spotting black. Because the virus might be affecting him differently from the others but it’s still got the same final result.

He is going to die, he thinks, probably sooner rather than later though if this guy has anything to do with it.

“You still look feverish, Mr Stilinski, but you should know something. The virus doesn’t kill human, You’ll get better. so don’t you think you should tell me where they are? Shouldn’t one of you get to live?”

Stiles thinks that too, but between one blink and the next he can’t see anything. The world is black and he stumbles, grabbing onto one of the benches for support. He feels the gun pressing at the nape of his neck, can taste the guy’s confusion and he lies. “I think I saw them in the library. Or it might have been the cafeteria, it’s definitely one of those two though.”

He just wants to get back to them now. He should never have left. He’s going to die as well, and if he’s going to die he might as well be with them.

“I’m going to count to three. And then I’m going to kill you.”

Stiles blinks and he sees faint shapes through the dark. He clenches his eyes closed and opens them again, and this time the world is spun in red thread. He slows his breathing, because if he can’t get back to the others, and he can’t get out of the town, the least he can do is kill this guy.

“You think you can scare me?” he turns slowly, staring at the gun that rises to his head.

“No, I think I can kill you. I just thought the countdown would make things more _exciting_ ,” the man smirks. He opens his mouth to begin the countdown, but as he focusses on Stiles, on the way his eyes have twisted from brown into lit silver he stops. “What the hell?”

“Just because I’m not on the list doesn’t mean I’m human.” Stiles says, gives the man a moment to let it sink in, then his hand shoots out and with a crack he snaps the man’s arm up. He breaks it, probably, but when the finger reflexively pulls the trigger the shot shoots high. He bends the arm and the Chemist cries out, dropping to his knees.

Stiles gazes down with a sigh at the man. He stammers, staring up at Stiles. “W-what are you?”

“Still working on that,” he says, and his arms are shaky and his skin cold and clammy. “But I think the question here is what are you?”

“W-what?” the guy chokes out, fumbling with his broken arm for the gun still in his numb fingers.

“Dead.” Stiles says stupidly happy, and then he slips the gun from shaking fingers and presses it to the guy’s head.

“Stiles.”

He glances up, sight blurring out again and _godammit_ that was his chance gone. His sense of balance is off and he steps backwards, the Chemist moving, but Stiles has lost what little sight he has left and he can’t see the other guy…

A shot rings out. Stiles flinches, hand coming up to cover his face. He stands there, clinging to a locker or bench, and there is warm probably blood on his face. “What… who?” he asks, trying to get his silver eyes back, but all he gets is the echoing sound of footsteps heading towards him.

“Stiles?” the voice asks again, and he recognises the tone with dread, “Are you okay? You look…” Stiles probably looks like he’s on drugs, but it doesn’t matter.

“What happened to him?”

“Can you not see?” there is a hand touching him arm where he holds it in front of his face and Stiles snatches his wrist away. “Woah! Stiles! It’s okay! It’s okay - I shot him. He’s dead. He’s dead.”

“Where did you come from?” Stiles steps away, blinking furiously and he can make out dark shapes again and nothing else.

“Melissa called. She said she had a message for you. Something about mushrooms. In the vault. She said the cure was in the vault.”

In the vault, Stiles thinks. In the vault he just left. In the vault that he can’t get into so he’s going to die, even if they do get there in time to save the others. He wants to sink down and curl up, hunger pains feeling like claws ripping into him. He could sit down and die right now. He could give up and then it would be over. For all of them.

But that’s the easy option.

And Stiles has never liked the easy option.

 

Scott finally opens the vault once his sight returns. Once he’s knocked nearly all the jars off the shelf, trying to find whatever Reishi Mushrooms Stiles was shouting through the walls about and recovered enough to move properly once again.

Stiles stopped shouting a while ago. Scott opens the vault, ready to tell Stiles that they’re okay. That behind him Kira is blinking back her sight, Jackson is forcing his shift down and Malia is sniffing Stiles’ jacket as if the scent of him might bring Stiles back.

There is a shape lying on the floor and Scott stares, because of course. He’d forgotten, stupidly, that Stiles isn’t human any more.

And he can’t hear his friend’s pulse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Screw you guys. Seriously. Why did I even write this into Season 4? I have so many other things to write but then you gave me ideas! (I enjoyed writing this so much though, so thank you as well! I think. Hope this turned out okay.)
> 
> But here - have a cliffhanger. I have another installment planned, but there's no guarantee as to when I'll get it up.


	3. Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People who can't feel guilt are known as sociopaths.
> 
> Stiles doesn't feel guilty. He feels nervous.

_"I am the part of the bird that is not in the sky. I can can swim in the ocean yet still remain dry. What am I?"_

 

Stiles wakes slowly.

His heard hurts. There is a gnawing hunger at the bottom of his spine, but that may just be the floor, digging into him. He blinks and the world spins sleepily around him, and he feels dazed and barely with it - it’s like he’s been deprived of oxygen or something vital.

“Stiles?” Malia is there. Her face appears above him and he blinks, trying to focus on her deep brown eyes, so _not_ -like Peter’s or Jackson’s. She must look like her mother, Stiles thinks, and wonders again how a wolf and a coyote produce a coyote and a human.

Or if she’s actually a coywolf and nobody has noticed yet.

“Stiles?” Scott almost knocks Malia flying as his face appears in the air, hovering nervously above him. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I thought… I thought you’d be okay, that you were human, and then when I got out and you weren’t breathing…”

Stiles wonders if he should be flattered that Scott forgot he was a nogitsune. Or whatever the hell he really is. God, he really needs to find an answer for that.

As it is his head hurts and when Malia helps him up, the whole world spins.

“We had to cram these mushrooms down your throat,” Malia explains. “Atomized mushroom dust because _someone_ …” she glares at Scott, “managed to knock the jar off the shelf.”

“Are you saying you gave me magic mushrooms?” is the first coherent thing Stiles manages to say, and then the effect is ruined by the giggle that bursts his way out of his throat, “Oh my god, I’m on drugs.”

Scott looks unimpressed. In the background Jackson pulls a face, “It’s not funny,” the douche snaps, “We thought you were dead. Scott looked ready to start weeping over your lifeless corpse.” Stiles is almost grateful for the concern that Jackson hides behind a sneer and twisted lips.

Stiles shifts, and he was right the first time - it’s not a stone in his back, its hunger aching in his belly. He leans against Malia, letting her chaotic thoughts and turmoil of emotions calm him just a little bit. But he’s going to have to feed. And soon. “Well I guess I’ll live to see another day, huh Scotty?” he grins at his friend.

Scott just stares at him, “You better,” he says, and his voice trembles, “You hear me, Stiles? You better live because I swear to god when I came out of the vault and saw you I…” the true alpha shakes his head, “I thought you were dead. You… you can’t do that to me again. You bastard, don’t you ever do that to me again.”

And Stiles may not care about people now, but he cares about his pack and Scott.

Scott’s always been his best friend.

And Stiles thinks (knows) that Scott will always be Stiles’ alpha.

Fox’ aren’t meant to run in packs. Instead they form familial groups and this?

Kira hovers in the background, Jackson pretends to look disinterested, Malia is a warm weight at his side and Scott’s brown eyes are fixed on him. Somewhere Lydia is moving faster than anybody should be able to in high heels, his dad is protecting people and Melissa is saving lives.

And that’s his family.

That’s his pack.

 

Derek’s hanging out with Satomi at the loft.

“Oh fuck,” Stiles backs away very, very quickly because he doesn’t think he’d survive being impaled on her claws again. He’s tied to this body, he’s no longer a wandering spirit, he’s Stiles and he’s pretty sure that he’s never been able to live through being stabbed.

It’s bad enough that Noshiko didn’t move back to New York (thank you, Kira) but to have the ancient werewolf in town as well? That’s just a disaster waiting to happen.

“What’s wrong?” he doesn’t get very far, backing away, straight into Scott, “Stiles?” His friend’s voice falters slightly.

“Still Stiles,” he grins, “I’m always gonna’ be Stiles, Scott, so stop looking at me like I killed your puppy.”

Scott looks guilty and that doesn’t help matters.

“I’m going to go see Malia,” Stiles lies with a clear conscious, and his heart doesn’t even stutter. He’ll save visiting Malia for now, but right now what he needs is his father.

He needs some sort of anchor, and even though a part of him once used to be a wandering spirit that’s now tied to a host body, it’s nothing more than something that makes him corporeal, rather than an emotional tether. Malia’s good at curbing his appetite but emotionally she’s using him just as much as he’s using her.

Scott and the rest of the pack still look at him like he’s going to turn around and stab them and Stiles doesn’t blame them, because he’s actually considered it.

And his dad looks sad, but Stiles has to take what he can get and he’ll take sadness over wariness any day.

He needs an anchor, he knows that. He’s not a wolf, not a shifter, he’s a chaos spirit that takes the form of a fox and has trapped itself into a mortal body. Or depending on your perspective, he’s trapped a demon in his head and stolen its power and memories. Some days Stiles feels like he happily sits between the two, but there are days like these that he’s so far from the soft squishy human it’s like all his friends are right and Stiles is gone completely. Wiped away. Erased.

Needless to say none of the pack need to know what he gets up to on those days.

They don’t need to know about stuff that doesn’t concern them and this?

This is one of them.

The woman is a wendigo. Stiles isn’t going to risk himself by going after wolves in this town, but the wendigos?

They’re open game. The woman screams as one of her bones breaks under his leg and thrashes uselessly in the handcuffs. She’s not going anywhere quickly and Stiles might as well enjoy this. He drags out her pain and she slumps limply, her eyes a misty white.

“Please,” she begs.

“Please _what_?” Stiles asks, crouching down in front of her, “Please kill you now? Please let you go? Please I swear I won’t eat another living person.” He laughs, “Yeah, no.” he reaches out and leans heavily onto the broken leg, and she starts screaming again. “You know what the best thing is?” he confides in her when she stops screaming. She’s trying to compete with the banshees, sobbing and crying out the way she is.

She blinks at him now, and she looks ordinary. Human.

Stiles does too though.

“The best thing is that I’m actually going to get a bunch of cash out of this. One million. You’re worth one _million_ dollars, Liz. And who knows, I may even find your boyfriend… Patrick, isn’t it? And then I’ll kill him too.”

She whimpers. Her long blonde hair falls in her face and Stiles gentle, almost tenderly, brushes it out of the way. She flinches from his touch and all Stiles can think is good.

It’s good that at least some people still realise he’s dangerous.

It’s just unfortunate that she won’t be around for much longer. But Stiles doesn’t really care. He’ll be one million dollars richer after all. That’s a dozen or so debts he can pay off for his dad, for Scott… he’ll have to be careful about how he goes about paying them, but he can always pretend he stole the cash from the Chemist.

He doubts Scott would even be surprised about that. Scott may insist on giving the money back to Derek and Peter, but Stiles has never been particularly fond of either of those blue-eyed werewolves.

He thinks he’s just going to keep this cash for himself.

Stiles’ family don’t need to know.

 

He has a family and Liam isn’t really a part of it.

The baby beta is cute, Stiles will admit that. The kid is wide-eyed, bumbling and worried about absolutely everything. “Isn’t it kind of dangerous?” he asks, because as if anything about being a supernatural creature of the night is even _safe_.

“It’s incredibly dangerous,” Stiles says, gleefully, “And borderline idiotic.”

Scott glares at him, probably trying to shut him up. Stiles just glances at Kira and then back to Scott, raising one eyebrow. Scott still has to choose.

“Have you done something like this before?” Liam narrows his eyes at Stiles.

“Dangerous or idiotic?” Stiles asks, then shrugs, “Yup - probably both at one time or other and probably both at the same time at least one time.” Liam blinks. “ _Yes_ ,” Stiles snaps, “I’m a trickster fox who is a hell of a lot better at playing a trick than our dear vixen over there.” He sneers a little bit at the thunder kitsune who just flinches.

“Stiles,” Scott glares, “This isn’t helping.”

“I don’t like it,” Stiles shrugs, “You’ll be as good as dead for almost an hour and you know where you’ll be during that? Right back in _bardo_.”

“It’s not quite like that.”

Stiles and Scott turn their heads simultaneously to look at Kira who chews on her lip nervously, “I mean… it’s similar, but you shouldn’t really feel anything. My mom says you’ll just dream a little bit…”

“Good or bad dreams?” Scott asks warily.

Kira shrugs, “That depends,” she smiles, “What are your dreams normally like?” she actually sounds positive and hopeful, as if she is under the impression they have good dreams and every time the sun goes down they aren’t plagued by screaming nightmares.

Malia has nightmares. She is curled up on the chair nearby, looking like she wants to go back to sleep. Liam looks like he has normal dreams about playing lacrosse and not about killer werewolves. “I’m not scared,” he argues.

“Then you’re borderline idiotic,” Malia drawls, “But to get paid by the Benefactor they need to be sent proof. They need to know if the target is dead. So what happens if you don’t send proof?”

“You don’t get paid,” Stiles points out to her.

Scott ducks his head down; looking at the laptops they’ve got, that they’ve hooked up to the camera’s security feed. “They have to come in person,” he says, “They have to come and see the body for themselves.”

 

The door rings and Stiles is the one who answers it. He slams it closed a few seconds later and wanders back into the living room as if nothing had happened.

Kira looks like she’s not actually sure what to say to him, but she speaks anyway. “Did you just slam the door in my mother’s face?”

“Yes.”

“ _Stiles_!” Scott hisses.

“It’s bad enough that she gets this funny look on her face every time your name is mentioned without you slamming the door in her face!” Kira looks worried, “Oh my god… I’m going to… I’m going to let her in.” she slides past Stiles.

“Does she look like she kind of wants to stab me?” Stiles calls after her, “Like, maybe with your katana? Or maybe she wants me to stab myself.” His voice drops, as he turns back to the others, “She’s asked me to do that before too.” His tone is grim.

Scott looks at him warily, “Do you want to send her away?” Stiles shakes his head, but he stiff stiffens when Noshiko Yukimura wanders through the doorway, with Kira trailing behind.

“This is a bad idea,” she says, and for a moment her gaze passes over him, as if she’s accusing him of coming up with it. “A really bad idea.”

“That’s what I said!” Malia throws up her hands from the chair.

Their alpha just looks grim. “It’s the only plan we’ve got.”

 

“I could do it,” Stiles catches Scott before he goes up to his room where he’s going to fake the heart attack or whatever they’ve decided for it, “If you want, I could probably stop your heart.” He meets Scott’s gaze, “You wouldn’t dream. It would be just like sleeping, and I could wake you up just as easily. I’ve done it before. If you use Kira that means it’s her electricity putting you under. It’s her then, and only her, that can bring you back.”

Scott’s smile is thin, “Does that apply to you as well?”

Stiles frowns, “Do you trust her?” he asks, carefully.

“I trust you too,” Scott says slowly, “But…” he hesitates, and then glances up the stairs. Stiles’ head doesn’t turn, but his eyes slide sideways to where the elder kitsune is staring down, waiting for them at the top.

Stiles laughs, “Fine,” he says, lips quirking, “ _Fine_.” He can’t be blamed if his voice is slightly bitter. Scott doesn’t trust him to stop his heart. Instead he’s relying on an inexperienced teenage thunder kitsune.

He doesn’t hang around to make Scott feel bad about it. He would have once, but now it causes an odd conflict at joy from Scott’s pain, and hurt from seeing Scott’s anguish. So instead he stalks through to where Malia and Liam are hanging about.

“So we’re seriously doing this?” Liam looks like he is regretting so many life choices in that instant.

“Lydia says it’s a terrible idea and she won’t have any part of it. She and Jackson are hanging out at the lake house,” Malia waves her phone about, “I agree with her.”

Stiles just shrugs, “Not my call. It’s Scott’s call.”

And maybe that’s what irks him so much.

 

Melissa’s scream tears through the whole hospital. Stiles is almost sad it isn’t real, because that would have absolutely beautiful…

He cuts off the thought when Melissa wanders into the morgue. It’s depressing that they’ve moved the body there so quickly, but there is no room for a cold dead corpse to be lying on a table.

“I still hate this plan,” Melissa says.

“We all do,” Stiles agrees with her.

 

(Scott dreams. He dreams about blood and a dead Liam. His beta dies with a tomahawk through his chest. Again and again and--

Stiles laughs. The Mute shoves an axe into Scott’s hands and Stiles stands there in the darkness and laughs. His eyes are illuminated silver and when he grins, there is a demon behind his eyes. The school lights flicker overhead and behind Stiles’ pale form a shadow curls around him, nine tails and a fanged grin with sharp argent teeth.

Scott buries the axe blade into Liam’s chest and Stiles _laughs and--_

Scott can’t help but wonder what will happen in a century or so. He’s not going to live that long (unless like Satomi he’ll age slower _longer_ **better** than if he were human) but Stiles would be the same, seventeen with silver eyes and a snarling shadow…

Scott buries the axe blade into Liam’s chest and Stiles’ fingers close over his wrist.

“That’s it,” Stiles purrs, “That’s the way…”

His hands are bloodied, but he picks up the tomahawk ready for the next round anyway…)

 

Naturally the plan doesn’t work. Nobody shows, except Kate and her Berserkers. Stiles is watching the cameras right up until the lights begin to flicker. He knows the hospital electric system pretty well after he messed it up previously, and with a sigh he rolls his eyes, and all the lights flicker back on.

It’s a drain, but it’s paid back equally when Kate and Chris start pointing guns at each other. He’s half tempted to wander off and pick up a cup of coffee to observe their arguments.

It gets tiring surprisingly quickly, “Look, if nobody is actually the Benefactor, and nobody is actually going to shoot each other, then can you get lost?”

Kate sneers at him, and then there is another painful few seconds of sibling glaring before they simultaneously withdraw all weapons. Kate stalks away and the Berserkers leave as well.

Stiles stays just long enough to check that Scott is revived before slipping out into the dark and following in the wake of Kate. She’s hard to track, keeps circling around dark back streets and ducking out of sight, but the Berserkers - those are pretty damn easy to track.

Also Stiles kind of has super-senses now - that always helps.

 

“You were right. He’s still alive.”

“Thank _god_ …” Peter’s voice is full of relief and Stiles pauses, half hidden in the shadows. He thinks there is a certain irony to that.

It’s no use though - the pair are supernatural creatures - they’re both stiffening at the sudden awareness that someone has followed them down.

So with a smirk, Stiles steps forwards, “Sorry,” he drawls, finger scraping mould off the wall, “Am I interrupting?”

Peter looks amused, if slightly wary, while Kate looks startled. The wolf turns fully to face him, and Stiles doesn’t miss the tensed muscles and unsheathed claws, “Well, well. The fox had come to play. Are you still dragging Stiles around in your head?” Peter sneers.

He considers his answer, gaze shifting between Peter and Kate, “We’re much of a muchness,” he hums, flicking the mould off into the water with a sneer. “We were just curious. What could the woman who once burned the werewolf alive and the werewolf who killed her want with each other? There is something twisted about that. Did you know, Peter, that there are times we wish we could have met you when you were withering away in that coma.” He’s slipping back into plural, but he doesn’t bother to correct himself. It makes both Kate and Peter bristle with unease and he _savours_ that.

“ _We_?” Kate steps forwards but Peter throws out an arm, keeping her back.

“Oh?” Stiles tilts his head to one side, eyes an eerie silver, “You didn’t tell her. And here I thought everyone knew.”

“Knew what…?” Kate is staring at him in horror, “What is he?”

Stiles shrugs, “I have yet to find a term to answer that accurately.”

The wolf just snorts. “He’s a Nogitsune. It’s a trickster spirit. A type of kitsune.” Peter stares calmly at Stiles. “The kid got himself possessed and never quite got rid of it.”

“Wasn’t intentional,” The boy laughs, “We had a few too many doors open and shattered a few too many mirrors to puts ourselves back together properly without using parts of the other.”

“Are you going to run off and tell Scott?” Peter sneers, “Or is there enough of that demon fox to change your mind?”

“You don’t touch Scott,” Stiles shrugs, stating the facts. “You touch Scott and I’ll rip you apart. You know what I can do.”

Kate growls, low in her throat and a splash of water suggests the presence of a Berserker behind him in the background, lurking. Stiles glances at it almost idly. Since the change he’s not been as strong as he had been in his prime, but the assassins and death surrounding the town had given him enough energy without having to lift a finger. He’s been waiting to test out his strength.

Smoothly he spins around, and punches a handful of electricity into the Berserker’s chest.

It drops to the ground and Stiles steps backwards, head tilting disspationately as it crashes into the water. Both Peter and Kate flinch back and Stiles lets his hand drop, turning slowly to glance at them. “Don’t worry,” he tells Kate, “I don’t think that killed it,” he shakes a bit of extra static out of his hand.

He’s not a thunder kitsune but electricity is easy enough to control. Especially since he’d got the chance to save up the extra power after Mexico when the Calavera’s almost electrocuted Lydia

“Oh well,” he shrugs, “I’ll help.” He points out to Peter, “But not Scott. You really want kill a true alpha? You can’t steal his powers.”

“He was my beta.” Peter growls.

“You know how rare a true alpha is?” Stiles asks, “I’m a thousand years old and I’ve only ever met one. They’re like unicorns. Myths and legends surround them, but they weren’t something that actually existed. At least until Scott.”

“What’s so special about him?” Kate snaps, “He almost got Allison killed. I want him dead! I want my revenge!”

“ _I_ almost got Allison killed,” Stiles coughs, “So if you want revenge, take it on me. Scott wouldn’t kill a thing. It makes him weak. But it also makes him strong.” He glances back to Peter, “Killing him won’t get you power. But I know of another alpha in town.”

“Satomi,” Peter whispers, and then eyes Stiles, “Haven’t you met before?”

Stiles’ grin is dark and for a moment he can appreciate the coincidence of three people who could be considered villains plotting together, “Yes. She ripped me out of a hunt. So I figured…” he glanced from Kate to Peter, “I figured I should return the favour.”

Peter looks like he’s considering it. Kate is still eyeing him warily. “Why?” she snarls, “Scott’s the one who ruined my family. We should go after him.”

“I’ll help you kill Satomi,” Stiles promises, “I’ll even help you go after the Calaveras. But you touch Scott and I will rip you to shreds. I haven’t torn anything apart for a long time and believe me…” he backs away, leaving them to think over his words, “Scott’s not big on the whole killing thing,” he turns away, “And I’ve kind of missed it.”

 

“Deal,” Peter drops down next to him the next day, “But first we need to figure out who the Benefactor is.”

Stiles laughs, “Haven’t you guessed yet?” he asks, “Peter, Peter, _Peter_ … every supernatural creature living in Beacon Hills has their name on the list.”

“Except you,” Peter narrows his eyes.

“Except me,” Stiles agrees, humming happily, “And _you_. You’re not on the list, but your money is paying to kill off creatures.”

“And why…” Peter’s voice is icy, “Why would I want to kill off my own daughter?” His gaze drifts past Stiles and the fox glances over his shoulder, spotting his girlfriend in the distance. Malia is outright glaring at anybody who pauses to gossip about her or Kira, the latter decked out in full lacrosse uniform.

“I think a baby bunny looked at me like that once when I was in the woods…” Malia muses, “You know what I did? I ate it.” Next to her, Kira looks mildly disturbed.

“You killed your own niece,” is all Stiles offers. Peter’s face is a picture of frustrated and barely contained patience.

“Nice theory,” Peter scoffs, “But find a better one,” he stands, brushing off his hands, “And find me when you have a plan.” He stalks off, and he doesn’t look back.

“Was that Peter?” Malia bounces up to Stiles, peering into the distance, “Should I go and talk to him?” Malia worries, “Spend some father-daughter time…?”

Stiles shakes his head, “No. No father-daughter time…”

“But he might know about my mother…?” Malia looks worried, and then even more worried when Jackson shoves past her to run in the direction Peter had gone, “So… uh… Scott told Jackson,” she adds to the end, kind of unnecessarily. Stiles just raises his eyebrows because that’s a train wreck waiting to happen. While it may be kind of fun to witness, he has more interesting things to be doing.

 

His ‘interesting things’ are put on hold while Parrish is burnt to death. And then comes back. Stiles is calling Phoenix, but he doesn’t have enough information yet. He’s still trying to persuade Scott to see if Parrish can heal from iron bullets, but he doesn’t think he’ll succeed any time soon.

They are slowly finding out more and more. Stiles’ board is filling up with red strings connecting everything, but they are still missing something vital. There’s a piece of information that will help tell them who the Benefactor is, but at the moment it’s like an unsolvable riddle, plaguing his mind.

Once upon a time Stiles would have loved that, except his friends are on that list.

 _No_.

Not his friends.

His _pack_.

He’s nervous, anxious, his stomach churning. Some part of him longs to _~~rip tear shred~~_ feed, but another part of him remembers a conversation not too long ago.

 _“What do you call a person who doesn’t feel guilt?”_ Morrell had asked.

Stiles knows the answer. He knows what it means.

_“A sociopath.”_

_“That’s right, Oliver.”_

He walks through the familiar walls of Eichen House once more and he can only spare a vague thought to the boy he had once used. He had felt nervous then, and he feels nervous now, fingers twitching.

He doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt.

“Stop fidgeting,” Lydia hisses out of the side of her mouth.

“I can’t help it,” Stiles whispers back, “It’s this place…”

“I thought you would have liked all the misery here…” the banshee glances about, and she winces, almost as if she can hear the cries of the patients. Knowing Lydia, she probably can. “Or…” the red head glances sideways at him, “Are you scared that you’ll be locked up here again? Deaton told me they have a ward for supernatural creatures.”

Stiles’ voice wavers, “They can’t hold us,” he says, but he’s not certain. There is a tingling in the air that if he was a fox, it would make his fur stand on ends and press his ears back against his skull in wariness. But he’s not a fox, he’s a human now.

Sort of.

_(A fox and a human meet over an old oak stump and what walks away is both but neither.)_

_~~(“You’ve gotta’ learn, Scott. You’ve gotta’ learn not to trust a fox.”)~~ _

_~~(You've got to learn not to trust me)~~ _

Brunski unlocks the door for them and Stiles steps forwards first, pulling out the list to begin looking for the files of the patients they’re looking for. Lydia is a few steps behind him when he stops and turns.

“Lydia?” he asks.

She looks uneasy. That’s worry enough, even if his name scrawled on the bottom of the list isn’t a big red flag of danger. Her eyes widen as he wordlessly holds up the list for her, and if the banshee is worried, Stiles knows something bad is going to happen.

It happens in the form of Brunski, sidling back into the room. “It was the tapes,” he sighs, and the lock clicks shut behind him. He smiles thinly, and Stiles steps forwards before he’s even realised it. Lydia is pushed behind him protectively.

“What are you doing?” he snarls, and he feels invisible fangs there.

“Getting rid of the evidence,” the head orderly is quick when pulling out the stun gun, but Stiles is quicker. He catches the end of the gun and a sharp jolt of energy runs up his arm. He grits his teeth, but he’s immune to electricity now. He should probably find an electrified baseball bat or steal one of Argent’s light sabres.

He steps back sharply from the stun gun, contemplating how to deal with Brunski. It’s harder because he’s critically aware of Lydia standing right behind him, and that’s the reason he hesitates.

That’s all the orderly needs to frown at him, “Oh,” he sighs, “You’re one of those,” and then with a sneer he has something else, something sharp, and he’s sinking it into Stiles’ wrist.

Stiles is aware of ripping claws in his head and then he falls into water and ice and mistletoe and drowns.

 

“Stiles? Are you okay? _Stiles?”_

They were **we are** ~~I’m all okay now~~

He _they_ cough, throat dry.

A pounding headache makes it hard to think, hard to identify anything, let alone his ~~their~~ _our_ dissociative personality.

“Stiles,” Lydia’s voice trembles, “I don’t know what he drugged you with, but wake up. Please, Stiles…”

“Lydia?” She’s in pain, and he both feeds off it and hates it, feels bile at the back of his throat at the taste of it in the air. He tries to open his eyes, and he half-expects burn scars to cover his face, or for the thick wad of bandages to be covering his sight, but amber eyes (fox eyes) blink open to a gloomy records room.

“It’s Brunski,” she sobs, and he cranes his neck but he can’t see her. She’s behind him, warm and wet breaths in out in out, “We should have known when we saw the tape oh god… are you okay?”

“What did he hit me with?” his bone ache and he can feel silver fangs in his mouth.

“I don’t know, he said he took it from the other ward, I don’t know… god… Stiles…” her voice is low. Whispered. Frantic. Her heartbeat is erratic and quick. She’s still sobbing, and she stinks of fear. The whole basement stinks of fear and pain and desperation. “We’re going to die,” she whispers, with conviction that only a banshee can have.

“We’re not going to die,” Stiles tells her, but she just sucks in air to try and stop the sobs. Again he cranes his neck, catching sight of red hair and green eyes, welling with tears, “Lydia…” he soothes her through his own pain, “Lydia, it’s okay. We’ll be okay.”

She shakes her head, “It’s not though,” she breathes, “Stiles, it’s not okay.”

“Why not?”

Her face crumples and she shakes her head. Her cheeks glisten with tears, “Because,” she whispers, “I don’t think this is real.”

And Stiles wakes up, struggling to breath.

 

“Let him go!” Lydia’s there and shouting she’s not crying. There may be tears in her eyes but her voice is strong and brave and she’s so so brave his pretty little banshee, so much better than the girl he had fawned over as a child. “Don’t touch him!”

Brunski is there, leering at them, “It’s not him I’m interested in, sweetie. It’s you. You see I made the acquaintance of your grandmother…”

Stiles’ world is swimming, and he can’t focus his vision. It spins, his eyes flickering between silver and amber and then some twist of the two. Lydia’s pain turns his veins black from where he and her have their hands entwined awkwardly through their bonds, but it doesn’t curb the hunger. It doesn’t curb his anger to rips shred burn the world to the ground.

It’s the drug ~~he~~ they realise at some point during Brunski’s speech.

“Stiles?” Lydia whispers.

“Lyds…” he barely manages to form the words, but her head snaps around and whatever she sees makes her eyes widen. She leans back, head resting against the post they are strapped to and eyes closing, just as the sounds of her grandmother’s dying breaths begin to play. There is a current of emotions swirling and…

And Stiles is a leaf in a hurricane.

He is a drop of water in a swirling ocean.

He is a shadow, a mirror, a broken reflection of a fox and a boy and it’s jarring.

Parrish shoots Brunski in the head. Meredith creeps from the shadows like an evil villain, but she’s just innocence and a strong desire to help.

Lydia crouches in front of him. Stiles vaguely realises his hands are free, but his arms are too heavy to lift. Lydia slaps at his cheeks as his eyes flutter closed. “Stiles? Stiles!” She’s warm and breathing and alive, while Stiles feels nothing but cold and still and dead.

But there was a spark in the boy and there is a spark in the fox. An ounce of belief and pure will-power kindled and lit.

“STILES!” Lydia calls. She’s always been able to anchor him tether him and she does so now.

He meets her gaze once, eyes nogitsune-silver, before he finally slips into sleep.

 

They keep Stiles in the hospital. They don’t know what stuff Brunski gave him, but whatever it was he reacted badly to it. Scott took some to Deaton and received his usual cryptic answer.

Malia doesn’t care. She’s just relieved that Stiles is okay, and she makes camp on his hospital bed. She’s a coyote and he’s a fox, and tricksters should stick together. She’d never known Stiles before, but she knows he’s not changed as much as everybody thinks.

Or maybe he’s just got changed priorities. He tells her there is a duffel bag full of Peter’s money under Scott’s bed, but that since he’s her father and all, it probably belongs to her.

“And Jackson.”

“But that jerk is rich enough as it is,” Stiles points out, and somehow his twisted logic makes sense, “I know you and your dad - your adopted dad - aren’t having the best of times…”

“He sent me to a mental institution.”

“To be fair, that was after you tried to tell him you were a coyote.”

Malia pulls a face, “He’s my legal guardian. But he doesn’t even notice when I sleep over at yours.”

“You mean live over at mine,” Stiles points out, as he finally finds a tape player. Cassette. Whatever, Melissa. “My dad’s adopted you, I swear.”

“Well you did wreck my old den,” Malia points out, rather smugly, “It’s only fair that you give me a new one.”

“That’s not… that’s not logical.” Stiles frowns, but then they’re listening to the tape, and then they’re at the lakehouse and finding the ancient computer servers and there isn’t much time to finish the conversation.

 

The deadpool is over.

The names of the board are not names on a hit list, but it still feels like there is something lingering in the air. Even Stiles walks like he’s limping, like there is some tangible emotion in the air making it painful to move.

“Are you okay?” Jackson appears unhelpfully from nowhere. Lydia swears Derek’s been teaching the pack how to do that.

Derek. Derek with whom there is something wrong with. Lydia had found herself at his place the previous night, a scream ripped from her lungs. Something is happening to him. His eyes aren’t even wolf-coloured anymore. They’re human eyes for a human body, but that’s _wrong_.

Derek’s not human.

“Hey,” Jackson waves a hand in front of her face, “Lydia, are you okay?”

“Fine,” she says, shortly, “When are you going back to London?”

His shoulders slump slightly, “Once the lacrosse season’s over,” he tells her, quietly. He meets her gaze in the way that she hates, in the way that suggests he still loves her.

She looks away.

Lydia might have loved him once. But she’s moved on. Too much has passed now - Peter and Aiden and Allison and Jennifer and…

And she wonders if there is some link between her falling in love with Peter’s son and falling into insanity with Peter’s ghost. It all leads back to Peter somehow.

She’s seen Stiles whispering with the older werewolf, and it’s just a matter of time, she thinks. Peter’s been waiting in the shadows like the patient wolf he isn’t. She meets Stiles’ eyes across the classroom and he smiles at her.

It’s almost reassuring. But there’s that little sharp broken edge that makes her uneasy. Her tether’s head tilts, as if sensing her discomfort. She smiles back and shakes her head. There’s nothing to worry about.

Across the room Stiles looks like he doesn’t believe her.

She scrawls down a four-letter word on a piece of paper, scrunches it into a ball and then, checking the teacher isn’t looking, throws it across to Stiles.

He catches it with a fox’s reflex, so she thinks it’s only appropriate that it has a fox’ name on it.

_yako_

It’s not the best term. It means a person possessed by a fox-spirit, or kitsune, which isn’t exactly true for Stiles anymore, but the wry grin on his face is still worth it. He nods, short and sharp and it’s an affirmative. He can work with that.

 

“Scott,” Brett looks nervous as he stands in front of the true alpha. His eyes are wide with awe, but he’s chewing his lip with anticipation. His gaze flickers to where Liam stands at Scott’s side, but then back to the alpha. “Scott, can I… Can I have a word?”

“Why?” Liam’s defensive of him. Scott rests one hand on the beta’s shoulder.

“Of course,” he says, voice cautious, “About what?” Brett looks apprehensive, but there is tension in his body, “What’s wrong?” Scott presses.

Brett pulls a face, “It’s about your fox.”

“Kira?” Scott’s heart beat starts to race, because the deadpool was meant to be over… what’s the problem now…?

Brett laughs, “No. Not your girlfriend. The thunder kitsune is fine, it’s the void spirit that’s the problem. Your best friend. Stiles. He hurt Satomi.”

 

Eichen House is cold and menacing, and Brett leads Scott and Liam down one of the corridors. There is a man in a white coat who gapes at them. Scott has to look at him twice before he recognises the man, “You,” he whispers.

The man looks both in awe of him and mildly resentful, but it’s mixed with gratitude. Scott doesn’t have the time to puzzle out what the man he and Stiles had once sought out to ask about a cure is doing here. So he demands instead, “Where’s Stiles?”

“They locked him up.” Brett says over his shoulder, “Satomi’s okay. We think the wolfsbane concoction was stolen from the Orphans. We managed to get it out of her system.”

“I don’t get it,” Liam frowns, “Stiles isn’t… well he’s _weird_ , but he wouldn’t just try to kill someone.”

“Satomi says there was someone else there,” Brett frowns, “But she was hallucinating and seeing things, so if there was another person she’s not sure who.” He stops in front of a cell door. Liam jerks away from another rattling door, eyes wide at the monster within. Scott winces, and then cautiously steps forwards to peer through the bars.

“Stiles?”

His friend is sprawled on the floor, looking pale. Then again that’s his usual look nowadays, “Scott?” his head snaps up, “Oh thank god…” he scrambles to his feet, then freezing when he spots Brett and Liam hovering behind the alpha, “Why am I here?” Stiles asks, standing in the middle of the cell but making no move forwards, “Whatever they say - I didn’t _do anything!”_

 _“_ Liar!” Brett shoves Scott aside, “You tried to kill Satomi!”

“Oh. _That_?” Stiles laughs weakly, “Key word: _tried_. She’s still alive, isn’t she?”

In that moment Scott is thankful for the door, because has it not been there Brett would probably have thrown himself forward at his best friend’s throat.

“It isn’t what it looks like,” Stiles puts his hands up placating the wolves, “I swear, _Scott_ …” his eyes are wide and desperate, “You can’t leave me here. There’s a guy with a third eye because _he drilled a hole in his skull!_ There are monsters far worse than anything we've ever seen. The... the drugs they give... it will drive me _insane_!”

“More insane,” Brett mutters.

“Can you give us some time alone?” Scott asks, gaze fixed on where Stiles stands calmly, watching them. There is anxiety beneath the fox' facade that Scott can see in the twitch of those long fingers and slight, almost unnoticeable hitch to his breathing. Stiles' amber eyes are also not visible beneath what is becoming an all too familiar ring of silver. Both betas protest at Scott's instruction, but the alpha flashes his eyes and they fall silent.

“I’ll meet you outside,” Scott says decisively, and without a word they begin to back away. An argument starts up between them, but they’re far enough away for Scott to not care what they’re bickering about.

Scott steps up to the bars again, and this time Stiles moves forwards to meet him, resting against so that they’re inches away.

Well?” Scott demands.

Stiles rubs at his wrists as if invisible manacles had chaffed at them, “Well,” the fox smirks as he parrots Scott’s words, “I’m right. Peter wants to be an alpha. And he’ll kill to get it.”

Scott slumps down, head resting against the cell door, “I still don’t like this plan,” he mumbles.

“You never like my plans,” Stiles scoffs, “But they’re better than yours.”

“And Lydia’s are better than both of ours,” Scott retorts, “Satomi almost died.”

“Yeah, shame that.” Stiles clicks his tongue against his teeth, “Peter will be pissed. He was literally this close from ripping her throat out,” the fox holds his fingers about a centimetre apart, then feigns mock disappointment, “It’s terrible how Kate got in the way.”

The smirk on Stiles’ face makes Scott uneasy, “Are you sure this is going to work?” he asks, “I don’t like you working with Peter and Kate.” Stiles probably can’t see what’s wrong about working with the untrustworthy bastard and sociopathic bitch.

Stiles shrugs, then grabs onto the bars, “Are you gonna get me out?” he asks.

Scott nods, gesturing to the doctor hovering at the edge of his vision. “Uh, Doctor Fenris, right?” he asks, and the doctor looks sheepish, “Can you get a key?”

“Are you sure?” the man asks, but after glancing between them once doesn’t question him further, “You should pop by,” he says, as he unlocks the door, “You two opened my eyes.”

“I still question your choice of job,” Stiles mumbles, and Scott punches his friend in the shoulder.

 

Stiles’ plan isn’t the best. But it’s certainly a lot better than anything that might have happened otherwise. For one, they’re not going to Mexico.

Instead they bring the Mexican Hunters to Beacon Hills in search of Kate.

“I hate this plan!” Lydia screams accusations at Stiles while ducking under gunfire. Ahead Kate runs through the trees with her Berserkers, and behind them Liam and Malia are scrambling for cover. Jackson trips over a tree root and lands next to her. He coughs out dirt and glares at where Stiles is practically skipping through the trees under the arch of bullets.

“It’s not that bad,” Stiles pouts.

“It’s not that good.”

“I have to admit that as plans go, it's not our worst,” a female voice chimes in, knocking out a passing hunter with a reflex bow. She wields it like a sword, lashing out and finishing with a kick. The hunter rolls over, unconscious, and Allison steps over the body with a smirk. “Hi!” she says brightly, skipping forwards.

“Hey Allison,” Stiles greets her.

“I’m not talking to you.”

“ _O_ kay,” Stiles turns away without another word and pulls a ball of electricity from nowhere, slamming it into the chest of another passing hunter, knocking the guy to the ground.

“Allison?” Lydia gasps at her friend, “What are you doing here?”

“Chris says you guys needed help,” Isaac steps up behind the huntress, “So we decided to help out our pack.”

“That’s good, right?” Kira gasps out, “Because I don’t know what we’re doing here and…” she stops suddenly with a frown, “What are we doing?” she asks, plaintively.

“The Calaveras are trying to go after Kate,” Allison informs them, “But there are too many Berserkers. We think she’s made more.”

“Derek’s with Braeden,” Lydia informs them, and her gaze drifts to where Stiles is lingering on the outskirts of the pack, “Stiles?” she asks, “What’s wrong?”

He meets her gaze and for the first time in a long while he looks terrified, “Scott.” It’s one word spoken with such emotion it shakes Lydia, and it takes her seconds more to glance around.

Because Stiles is right. Scott isn’t there.

And that - that definitely wasn't part of the plan.

“What?” Allison gasps out, but then Stiles is lurching away. “Scott is in trouble?!”

“What kind of trouble?” Jackson looks apprehensive, but Isaac just leaps after Stiles. He almost crashes into Liam who does the same. The two betas stare at each other for a moment before deciding that following Stiles is probably best and then both move away, after Malia who is already on the heels of the fox.

 

They find Scott pinned to the Nemeton by Peter.

“Is it power you want?” Scott is choking out. “You can’t steal it from me. I didn’t kill to get it.”

“It was never your power,” Peter growls out, “It was my _family's_ power, _my_ power. I am the _alpha_. I have _always_ been the alpha.”

“You’ve always been a monster,” Scott’s got blood dribbling down his chin and bonds around his limbs. He’s like a spread-eagled sacrifice back to that goddamn tree trunk.

That’s about when Stiles and Malia burst out of the forest. Malia is first to move, lunging at her father. He tosses her aside, head snapping around and eyes blazing blue. He meets Stiles’ gaze where the fox is more cautious. Stiles knows better than to attack straight on. He’s a trickster after all.

“I should have known you’d be lying,” Peter’s voice drops to a growl, “That’s what you do now, isn’t it, _yako?_ Whose side are you _really_ on?”

“You get one chance,” Stiles shrugs with a flash of silver eyes, “One. Let Scott go.”

Peter grins and his smile is full of teeth. “No.”

The Berserker steps out of nowhere and Stiles ducks too late. The blow catches him across the temple and he is knocked backwards, hitting the ground heavily. With a hissed breath he pushes himself up and catches sight of the thick legs heading towards him.

He’d forgotten about Kate and her pets.

That’s when the wolves arrive. Isaac and Liam have never met, and Jackson doesn’t get on with anyone, but somehow the three manage to work together seamlessly to begin harrying the large man wrapped in an animal’s spirit.

Poor Scott is still pinned to the Nemeton, and with a snarl Peter turns back to the true alpha. Stiles shoves himself up, but the arrow that flies through the air is faster. It sinks into the ground just in front of Peter and the wolf steps backwards in alarm.

“Don’t you even try,” Allison steps out of the trees, bow drawn.

Peter doesn’t look worried. He just looks mildly amused.

That’s when Derek crashes into his side and the pair roll across the clearing in a tangle of claws and fangs on Peter’s side, and a gun on Derek’s.

Stiles and Allison meet over the Nemeton, Scott splayed between them. Stiles can feels the humming power in the tree, and he doesn’t know what Peter’s done to it, but he was going to drain the power right out of Scott and into him. It might have been possible. This is Hale land after all. It’s ancient, the tree even more so. He should know, he’d spent so long buried beneath it.

And he’d died for it.

Now once again Stiles, Scott and Allison are there, the trunk between them. Scott’s bonds fall away under Stiles’ fingers and the true alpha is leaning heavily on Allison as they help him up.

“What did they give you?” Allison whispers to him, “Oh, Scott…”

A loud cry ripples through the clearing and everybody’s head snap up.

Peter’s standing over a body. He straightens, claws coming away bloody.

On the ground Derek lies still and unmoving.

The banshee screams.

 

Stiles is beginning to think that maybe the others are right. Maybe he should stop making the plans.

“Well, Scott?” Peter grins, “Are you going to keep hiding behind your pack?” he gestures to Stiles and Allison, then across to the others. Kira and Malia are crouched together, and behind them the three wolves are still trying to fend off the Berserker. Lydia stands stranded somewhere between them, still gaping in shock at Derek.

“No,” Scott tries to straighten, shoving Allison away. Stiles steps back, heart pounding. Scott can’t fight like this. He can’t… But Stiles can't interfere either. Because if this is anybody's fight it is Scott's. “This doesn’t involve them," the true alpha snarls, "it’s just you and me, Peter.”

They don’t waste time with words. Peter snarls and the trees around them shake when the two wolves crash together. Stiles flinches back.

“Can you shoot…?”

“I can’t - I might hit Scott,” Allison has one hand over her mouth.

Peter looks like he’s winning as well. He’s knocking Scott around with ease, looking grimly satisfied. “You don’t even kill your enemies,” Peter scoffs, “Not even when justified. That makes you weak.”

“It makes me strong,” Scott growls out. Every time he is knocked down he stands back up. He’s bloody, claws out, eyes red, and he glares at Peter, “Not like you. You might have been an alpha once, but now? You have no pack. You have no family. You killed your own niece. You killed your own nephew. You’re alone and that? That makes _you_ weak.”

And a feel of unease digs into Stiles’ gut, “Allison…” he says slowly, “Did your dad tell you about Kate?”

“Yes,” Allison’s head tilts to one side, “Why?”

“Peter and Kate are working together.”

Stiles and Allison spin around at the same time just as another Berserker crashes through the trees, with a lithe were-jaguar stalking forwards besides it.

“Oh sweetie,” Kate croons at her niece as Allison brings up her bow to aim at her aunt, “You couldn’t even shoot a werewolf. What makes you think you can shoot a nagual?”

Allison’s lip trembles. Stiles takes a step forwards, prepared to deal with it himself when a howl rings out.

It’s piercing, rising up above the noise of the battle and the distant sound of gunshots. It’s clear, like liquid crystal and the last note rises up, quivering, a call to the moon.

Seconds later a large, black-furred wolf crashes past Stiles and Allison, leaping straight over the Nemeton towards Kate. It knocks her back, and then goes straight for her throat.

There is a strangled sound from Peter, “No,” he hisses in disbelief, and Scott for once, doesn’t care that his enemy is distracted.

He punches Peter in the face and knocks him flying across the clearing.

“Who is that?” Allison asks, and Stiles’ attention wavers between Peter and Kate. Kate crawls away as the wolf steps back, rising up and up and…

“Derek,” Stiles whispers, “He’s alive.”

Said werewolf whirls to the Berserker that had been by Kate’s side, and twists the stabbing arm away from him. With another quick movement he grabs for the skull and _rips…_

Stiles laughs as the Berserker shatters into glass. Derek looks triumphant as he turns to grin back at Stiles and Allison. Behind them Peter’s groaning on the floor, and Scott casts him a scornful look before stepping forwards to punch another Berserker, the one Kira and Malia had been struggling with.

The skull cracks and crumples. Glass flashes in the moonlight and tinkles to the ground in tiny broken pieces.

The third Berserker throws off Liam and Jackson. Lydia crouches in worry by the latter, and Isaac suddenly looks cowed, the only wolf left standing.

“Hey! Catch!”

Stiles doesn’t know what his dad’s doing here, but he doesn’t complain when the Berserker catches the claymore mine and after staring at it in puzzlement, explodes.

He tugs Allison down, and he’s still laughing. His plans might be terrible, but they’re also kind of fun.

“You’re terrible,” Allison punches him in the shoulder with a glare, but there is fondness under her voice, “You okay?” she asks.

He doesn’t know what she’s referring to -  if its his new supernatural status or just the already healing injuries from the fight, but he nods, “I’m fine,” he says, and for once, he doesn’t think he’s lying.

“Good,” she vanishes then, heading for Isaac who looks like he’s been deafened by the bomb. Scott staggers up, helping Kira and Malia.

“Is this it?” Scott asks Stiles, and Malia aims a kick at her unconscious father, “Is this everything?”

Another splutter of gunshots has them all ducking.

“Uh, let’s deal with the hunters first.”

 

Chris runs off after Kate, taking the hunters with him, but not before Stiles steals one of his ‘lightsabers’ as his dad has dubbed them. He enjoys the electricity that trickles over it, and since Lydia has somehow acquired his baseball bat, he’s got to have something.

“I don’t even want to know what you plan on doing with that,” Isaac had rolled his eyes and stalked off. He and Allison were still hanging around, along with Jackson, and whether they were going to leave any time soon to go back to France or England was debatable.

But there was no rush. Nobody was dying any time soon and although Stiles knew that soon he’d be consumed with a hunger for chaos, for now he was fine with the peace for a change.

Malia curls up in his bed and he’s grown strangely fond of the coyote. On the board that his dad had bought him solely so he would stop desecrating his walls is a new question.

_Who is the Desert Wolf?_

Peter rots in Eichen House and Kate had fled. Scott and Kira are tentatively going on a first date refusing any and all advice from their friends. Lydia had suggested double dating. Allison had suggested ice skating and Stiles had suggested Star Wars. By the time Malia’s suggestions involving ‘woods’ and 'deer' came up the pair had stopped taking the pack’s advice into consideration.

Lydia keeps flirting with Parrish. She claims she isn’t, but she’s volunteering to help him discover what supernatural creature he may be, much to Jackson’s chagrin. Stiles is secretly starting a betting pool and he thinks he might persuade Isaac to help him.

But that’s for later. Now he leans into the coyote at his side and his gaze falls on a drawing stuck by his door. It was something he’d done as a child, when his mom had still been ill and dying. It’s a mess of black lines, scribbled into a deep, dark pit. It’s a void, and next to it Stiles’ bedroom door is not quite closed.

It’s ajar, but the sun is peeking through Stiles’ window allowing him to see every facet of the hallway beyond. Even the black void pit is illuminated in light. It’s kind of cliché, Stiles thinks, letting his eyes drift closed. He’s a not-quite human with nogitsune powers and memories and identity issues. He has a pack he’s no longer trying to kill and all of whom now seem prepared to look beyond his twisted morals and lust for pain and chaos.

His thoughts are still disjointed and there are times when there is too much going on inside his head, but he’s come a long way from a few months ago.

Stiles is a human with a fox’ shadow but his friends and family are his anchor - Scott, Malia, his dad, Lydia… and they?

They no longer care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea how to end this, so I'm sorry if it's not as good as the previous two parts. (I haven't checked it for typos yet either, so I'll get that done eventually.) I probably won't write anymore because I don't want to mess this up, I love this morally dubious Stiles with a nogitsune's power and memories. So I hope everyone enjoys!
> 
> Happy New Year!


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